


Recursion

by gooseflesh



Series: Saturn In Retrograde [2]
Category: Dirk Gently's Holistic Detective Agency (TV 2016)
Genre: Angst, F/F, Hurt/Comfort, Illness, Kidnapping, M/M, Pararibulitis (Dirk Gently), Post-Canon, Project Blackwing (Dirk Gently), Slow Build, Slow Burn, Suicidal Thoughts, casefic
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-05-01
Updated: 2018-07-24
Packaged: 2019-04-30 22:44:30
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 9
Words: 50,540
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14507106
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/gooseflesh/pseuds/gooseflesh
Summary: Dirk Gently is not a leaf floating along the stream of creation. He's a stone sinking straight down into the deep dark cold. Todd's been taken and Dirk would trade his very life to get his friend back safe and sound, but first he's going to have to run.Crippled by fear and an increasingly tempestuous relationship with the universe, he finds that every step is a struggle in a battle he can't afford to lose. But it isn't a fight he has to face alone, and Farah's not about to let him drown.





	1. The Bluebird and The Blackmailer

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here is the continuation of [Tessellation](https://archiveofourown.org/works/14255523/chapters/32877264)!  
> This won't make any damn sense if you haven't read that.
> 
> Anyway, I want to say thank you to all who have stuck with this story so far! The pacing here is probably going to be quite different from 'Tessellation' so please let me know what you think ♡

There’s no time to think about the dead man in the offices of _Dirk Gently’s Holistic Detective Agency_. 

Farah forces herself to focus--there’s safety protocol and counter-surveillance tactics to consider and they _have_ to get to Todd. But they can’t take any risks, not with a freshly deceased CIA agent in a building with Dirk’s name on the sign and Farah’s name on the lease. 

Farah won’t let Dirk talk about it on the way to the hospital, wanting to wait until they’ve got a bit of privacy to address the obvious impending disaster. The elevator ride to the fourth floor is painfully silent, too, because there’s a glassy-eyed woman with flowers in her hands accompanying them up and they can’t exactly discuss the body they’d found without attracting unwanted attention. 

The metal doors slide open and they follow the sad-faced woman off of the lift, practically sprinting down the hall toward their friend’s room, and Farah’s relieved to note that there are no hulking agents waiting around the corner. 

They make it to Todd’s room without incident but they’re stupefied to find an empty bed where Todd should be.

“Farah.” Dirk sways unsteadily and makes an alarming noise in the back of his throat, and Farah quickly grabs hold of his arm and drags him away from theroom. “Farah--oh my god--”

“It’s okay, Dirk, don’t panic. They probably just moved him to a different room.”

“What, _why?_ Why would they move him?”

“Maybe it’s because he woke up,” Farah says doubtfully. Her stomach is in knots. She doesn’t allow herself to consider Blackwing, but the only other alternative is that Todd’s in surgery, that something went wrong and--

Dirk jerks out of her grasp. She follows him all the way to the nurses’ station without another word.

“Excuse me,” Dirk says in the politest of British mannerisms. The nurse behind the wide white desk looks up from the computer screen she’d been scrutinizing with a forced smile.

“Can I help you?”

“Yes, our friend, he’s no longer in his room--Todd Brotzman, room 402?”

The nurse blinks with something like surprise. “Oh, you’ve just missed him.”

“What do you mean by that?” Farah asks impatiently. “You couldn’t have possibly discharged him--”

“No. He’s just been transferred into the care of…” she pauses to scroll down a page. “Bluebird Medical.”

“What? Why?” Farah demands, but in the corner of her eye she sees Dirk rear back from the desk and go pale. She turns to him, confused. “Dirk, what--?”

“Bluebird that’s--that’s Blackwing, that’s CIA,” he murmurs numbly.

_”What?”_

“That’s the name of one of their medical centers.” His voice is faint and his eyes are glazed. He still hasn’t actually looked at her. “And I use the term ‘medical’ loosely.”

The nurse is glancing curiously between them. Farah turns back to her, heart thundering.

“Where is Mr. Brotzman? Todd’s father--he was here earlier--”

The nurse’s frown deepens. She glances down at a binder next to her computer and flips through the pages. “We don’t have any record of personal visits aside from a Farah Black and a Dirk Gently. That’s--?”

“That’s us, yes, but there must be some mistake. I’ve _met_ Mr. Brotzman--he’s been in to visit Todd here at least twice.” 

Nurse Page, if her nametag can be trusted, eyes her with something like suspicion. “I’m telling you, we have no record of that. The only other visitor that’s signed in for that room is a representative from Bluebird Medical.”

Farah braces her hands on the desk, feeling dizzy. A glance at Dirk tells her he’s on the verge of falling to the floor in a dead faint. She hasn’t seen him this pale since that time he’d been shot with not one but _two_ arrows and had passed out from blood loss. She lays a steadying hand on his arm but he doesn’t so much as twitch in response.

“I don’t--I don’t understand,” Farah tries again, but the nurse is frowning at something at the computer screen and looks downright pissed off when she raises her eyes again.

“There’s a note here that says Todd Brotzman’s fiancé requested that his parents not be contacted until further notice. That’s you, I presume?”

“Yes, but--” Farah cuts herself off. She stiffens. “What was the name of the man representing Bluebird?”

Nurse Page frowns, clearly uneasy, but in the few moments she considers the request she can’t seem to figure out a reason to refuse. “His name is listed as Alan King.”

“Thank you,” she croaks out. “Thank you, that’s--okay, thank you,” she tells the woman, then tightens her grip on Dirk and drags him away from the counter.

He follows with no resistance. It’s only once she’s gotten him outside and across the parking lot that he shudders and pulls abruptly away from her.

Farah turns, raising her hands in a pacifying gesture. “Dirk--”

He looks at her, white with fear. “Blackwing’s taken Todd.”

“Dirk, listen to me. We have to get out of Seattle.” She can see his refusal before he even puffs himself up with outrage. “We can’t help Todd if we’re taken in, too. You know it’s true.”

Dirk still looks ready to fight. “Maybe--I could--if they took me, and you followed--”

“No.”

A shudder runs through the detective, but Farah doesn’t back down, not even when his bravado collapses. She grabs him by the sleeve of his jacket and pulls him toward the bus stop.

“What about your car?” comes a weak protest, but she only shakes her head.

“They know my car. They’re probably already tracking it.”

“Then how are we--”

“Eddie.”

“I’m sorry?” he asks, trying to pull away again, but she’s got an iron grip this time.

“That thing I had to do the other day, when I went out of town? I met with Eddie in Tacoma. He got a rental under his name, and I convinced him to let me borrow it because I had a feeling we might need it. It was just… just in case. I didn’t think...”

“Farah,” Dirk murmurs, and she’s not sure if he looks impressed or just dazed. 

“Blackwing will figure it out eventually, but it’ll buy us some time. We need to get out of the city, Dirk.”

The bus hums toward them up the street and she shuts up. They climb onto the shuttle and sit quietly side by side. Farah leads the way--she pulls him off at the right stop, walks six blocks before making four left turns, then goes another two blocks in another direction before entering a Chinese restaurant and leaving out the back, then she’s tugging Dirk through a surprisingly clean alley and up the staircase of a parking garage. 

Farah takes out an unfamiliar key FOB and clicks. A pleasant _beep_ echoes through the concrete space and she helpfully guides Dirk into the waiting navy-blue Mercedes. Dirk sends her a pleading look as she enters the SUV from the driver’s side.

“Dirk, take a deep breath, it’s going to be okay.”

“You can’t know that,” he whispers, and she’s struck by how small and vulnerable he looks. “You don’t know Blackwing, Farah.”

It’s true, but instead of conceding the point Farah starts the car. Her mind is racing but her eyes are fixed on the gas tank, which is only half full. 

“We need fuel,” she mutters. “But we can’t be seen filling this car up. Gas stations are always covered in cameras.” She glances over at him again and is alarmed to see his eyes have gone glassy. She grabs his wrist and squeezes hard until he focuses on her again. “Stay with me, Dirk. Trust me. It’s going to be okay.”

“Okay,” he says in a small voice.

“We’ll need to park a few blocks away and walk over to the gas station. We’ll fill up two canisters and then walk back, and then we need to leave the city.”

He head jerks up and down in mindless agreement.

◈ ◈ ◈

Their undercover orderly is dead.

Priest himself had been the one to discover the gaunt corpse in a utility room not far from room 402. The man had been sucked dry, just like Tanner. Priest had allowed himself a moment of genuine rage when he’d stormed the hospital only to find Brotzman already gone, apparently spirited away by someone posing as a staff member of one of the CIA’s own goddamn programs.

Priest doesn’t know how it happened--he doesn’t know who would use Bluebird Medical’s name, who could possibly grab Brotzman right out from under his nose, but he does plan to find out. 

And he plans to utilize every considerable skill to make that someone _hurt_.

He hunts down a neurotic-look security guard and flashes his CIA identification. The man stutters a few questions but allows Priest to bully him into leading the way to the security office. The guard nervously offers to help Priest navigate the wall of surveillance feeds, but Priest only grunts and shoves him out of the way. Like he needs help from a goddamn rent-a-cop.

It doesn’t take him long to find and review the footage.

He watches as a man in glasses saunters down the hall, enters 402, and then leaves with Todd Brotzman sagging pitifully in a wheelchair.

A smile stretches across Priest’s thin lips. He pauses the video and regards the face on the screen.

“Son of a bitch.”

A laugh bursts out of him and the guard shifts uneasily at the high, unsettling sound of it.

“Hello, Mr. Bishop.”

◈ ◈ ◈

“Okay, Dirk, you remember the plan?” Farah asks, guiding the SUV into a metered space a few streets over from the gas station.

“Get the gas, come back, get out of Seattle,” he repeats dully, staring down at his lap.

“Right. Come on.”

Dirk slides out of the passenger seat and waits while she drops a few quarters into the meter, then watches as she takes the stub it spits out and puts it on the dash. It seems complicated. He’s never bothered with meters before. Farah takes a deep breath and then crosses the street and he follows, unable to force a single useful thought into his brain. 

He’s on autopilot. If he takes a moment to think about it, _really_ think about it, he’d fall to pieces, and then he’d be no help to Todd--

That woozy feeling comes back and he has to stop and gasp in a breath. Farah is by his side in an instant, offering a supportive hand, but Dirk needs to brace himself against the side of the coffee shop they’d stopped in front of. 

“Dirk,” Farah starts, but she can’t seem to figure out what else to say. They both know she’s made enough empty promises for the day.

“How are we going to do this?” he asks hoarsely. “Our credit cards--I don’t have any cash on me.”

“I have… some cash on me.”

He turns to face her and doesn’t miss the stiff, guilty expression on her face. “How much?”

“Fifty dollars. And some change.”

Dirk sucks in another breath. “Is that going to be enough?”

“It’ll be enough for the gas,” she admits. “But you’re right. We’ll need more. I would say that we should head down to Tacoma, but--they’ll probably be expecting that now. We can’t rely on Eddie for money.”

Dirk’s halfway through a mental pep talk about the necessity of becoming an adequate thief when his eyes inadvertently focus on someone across the street. He feels a familiar squeeze in his stomach. 

The shifting of the current. 

“How much will we need?”

Farah hesitates, obviously noticing the sudden change in Dirk’s mood. “Well, we need the gas, to start with. But we also need money for motels, and food, and we’ll need burner phones--”

“Farah, _how much_?”

“...A couple hundred, to start off with, but--”

Dirk shoves himself off of the wall and marches across the street, heart shuddering viciously with fear. Blackwing could be in any car, could be any passing stranger, but he tells himself that it doesn’t matter. Not right now.

This moment was meant to be.

He straightens his shoulders and stands firmly in the way of the blond man he’d spotted from across the way. The man looks down at him, bewildered.

“Carl Bates,” Dirk announces. Carl blinks and then looks Dirk up and down, as if that’ll clue him into what’s going on. Farah pops up from behind Dirk and hisses his name, but he ignores her in favor of staring straight into the other man’s wide eyes.

“Yes? Can I help you?”

Dirk inhales and begins speaking quietly, just loudly enough for Carl and a very alarmed Farah to hear. “A piece of your mother’s lawn art collection recently went missing. A tiger, to be precise. One that was worth one thousand dollars a month ago but whose value suddenly jumped to ten thousand, thanks to the untimely death of the artist.”

“What--”

“You stole the tiger and told your mother you filed a police report, but that was a lie, wasn’t it, Carl?”

The man’s face turns an unflattering shade of red. 

“You didn’t report it missing because that would make it harder to sell. Not many tiger-shaped branch sculptures out there.”

“Dirk,” Farah tries to cut in, but he shakes his head firmly and her protest subsides. 

“You wanted the money. Of course you did, you’re a forty year old living at home with your harpy of a mother. You asked her for the money and she said no, didn’t she? But that’s hardly fair, given that she didn’t exactly _earn_ that money, right?”

Carl’s mouth pops open and then clicks shut. He glances around but no one’s paying them any mind. 

“Insurance fraud, was it? Ah, I thought so,” he confirms, feeling the pleasant buzz he associates with a good hunch. “What was it? Medical, or something at work? Or perhaps both.”

Carl looks nervously between Dirk and Farah, and if Dirk’s read him correctly he’s a man easily cowed. Predictably, Carl swallows hard and nods. “Something like that,” he mutters.

“An injury you helped fake?” Dirk presses. Carl’s face turns blotchy but he doesn’t argue. “Of course. So you help your mother win a sum of money, likely settled out of court, and then she takes that money and buys herself a mini-mansion outside of the city. But you didn’t get a dime, did you?”

Farah’s staring. She’s obviously clued into the fact that Dirk’s doing a Thing and she knows better than to interrupt. 

“So it’s only fair that you take the lawn tiger--purchased in part with money _you_ helped earn--to turn a little profit for yourself.”

“How could you possibly--”

“I’m a detective,” Dirk announces proudly. His lower lip only quivers a little bit when he continues. “My assistant--my best friend--he figured it out, you see. We know exactly what you did and we have proof. Proof your mother and the police never need to see.”

It’s a bluff but it’s not a bad one.

“What do you want,” Carl asks, suddenly desperate for the conversation to end. 

“You’ve already sold the tiger, haven’t you?”

“Yes,” the man answers sullenly.

“What do you have in your wallet?”

Carl Bates blinks slowly, like maybe he can’t believe he’s being blackmailed in broad daylight on a busy city street, but Dirk never relents his steely stare. Carl draws out his wallet and Dirk feels his heart pound when the man spreads out four one-hundred dollar bills, a fifty, and two twenties. 

Dirk holds out his right hand and Carl reluctantly places the small stack of bills into it. 

“Thank you, Mr. Bates. Rest assured, your secret is safe with us. No one else will ever know.”

Carl opens his mouth, his expression already shifting from cold fear to rage, but Dirk takes off down the street before he can gurgle the words out. Farah follows at his heels, glancing anxiously behind her, but Carl simply stands and stares. 

They take a complicated series of turns before making their way to the gas station, only approaching once they’re sure no one’s following them. He can feel Farah shooting him curious looks but they don’t speak, and by the time they return to the Mercedes with four canisters of gasoline Dirk’s adrenaline has worn off and he’s a shaky mess. 

Farah carefully takes his two canisters and loads them in the trunk. When they settle into the car she turns to him expectantly. 

He already knows what she wants to know.

“North,” he whispers.

She starts the car.

◈ ◈ ◈

Todd’s numb.

It’s hard to stay awake, harder still to try to make sense of the whirlwind rush out of the hospital and into the stranger’s sedan. He forces his heavy eyes to stay open, trying to track their progress out of the city, but he’s losing time in between each blink. The sedatives in his bloodstream are a siren song and he wants to submit, wants to go back under the green stillness he’d been pulled from, because at least then he wouldn’t have to try to make sense of anything. 

He fights a quiver of nausea and lets his head flop back against the headrest, angling to stare at the man that had escorted him out of his comfortable bed. He hasn’t said anything in nearly twenty minutes--or was it thirty? Todd’s eyes ache too much to focus on the clock on the dashboard.

He’s got to say something. He’s got to figure it all out and find a way to get in touch with Farah and Dirk. But the stranger’s blank eyes and impassive frown make it hard to find the words.

"You said my sister sent you," Todd tries.

"That's right." Todd waits, but the man says nothing else. He seems to be in a strange mood, something Todd doesn't think he could figure out even without the sedatives slowing his every thought. The man is calm, nearly motionless except for when he has to move the steering wheel. Todd can't remember the last time he saw him blink.

"Why did you tell my friend you were my dad?"

"Amanda told me about Ms. Black. She said it would be easier if I avoided a confrontation." The man still hasn't taken his eyes off the road.

Todd's really struggling. It's getting harder to stay awake and he sure as shit can’t hold up a conversation all on his own. "But why did Amanda--"

"You can call me Mr. Rook," the man tells him tersely, breezing past his half-asked question. 

"Okay," Todd agrees, confused. "But--"

"That's all you need to know for now, Todd." Rook’s teasingly stern now, like he's playing teacher, and Todd may be drugged up but he's coherent enough to get pissed off.

"No. Hell no, man. You dragged me out of a _hospital bed_ because my sister told you to, to come find me or whatever, and you expect me to--"

He's staring straight at Rook but he doesn't see him swing. The man's knuckles collide with his temple and his head bounces off of the opposite window with a dull _thunk_. 

Todd doesn't lose consciousness but his mind can't keep up as Rook pulls over and roughly drags him out of the passenger seat. Todd smells loamy earth and rain, and then there's a sickly sweet pine stench and everything goes dark. For a moment he think he's blacked out, but then realizes he wouldn't have the opportunity to wonder about that if it were true.

There’s a rumble and the world around him shakes--the car’s starting up again.

Todd tries to move but the space is narrow and stuffy and he can’t stretch his legs out--claustrophobia suddenly itches its way up his spine, and a violent tremor runs through him when the realization hits home.

He's in the trunk.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hello my friends it's Time For The Angst


	2. Into The Gloaming

Todd’s startled out of an uncomfortable doze. It takes him a long moment to remember the series of events that have led to him taking a nap in the trunk of a stranger’s car, and his stomach rolls with panic when he realizes what woke him--the car’s come to a stop. 

Todd hears muffled voices and he strains to listen but it’s all garbled. 

The car pulls forward and stops twice before accelerating again. Todd’s head hits against the roof of the trunk-space as they make a sharp turn. There’s a long stretch of a steady pace--likely a highway, or maybe a country road--and Todd’s just about to drift off again when the car pulls off to the side, rocking lightly over gravel.

Todd’s chest tightens when he hears a car door open and slam. It only takes a few moments for the trunk to swing open, and then he’s blearily peering out into a milky twilight sky. He sucks in the fresh air, taking hungry gulps as his abductor stares blankly down at him. Todd’s just starting to wonder if he should be climbing out of the car when Rook’s hands roughly drag him from it. Todd hits the ground but he’s quickly pulled into a standing position by his shirt.

He shivers and allows Rook to lead him to the passenger side of the car, which faces out toward a slow-swaying field of ryegrass. There are the wistful chirps of crickets and the last of evening birdsong, and it would be peaceful if not for the whole kidnapping thing and the potential head injury that had come with it. 

Rook leans into the car window and pulls out a plastic bag, then deposits three pills and a bottle of water into Todd’s hands.

Todd stares at the pills--two red capsules that he’s all too familiar with, and one round white pill that he can’t identify. For a brief, blissful moment is absolutely certain that it’s all a bizarre, terrible dream. 

But it’s not a dream. It’s not even a nightmare. 

“You need to take your medication.” Rook says it like it’s a suggestion.

“What’s the white--”

“Take all three, or don’t take any at all.”

Todd considers refusing, but the only thing that would make the impromptu road-trip more unbearable would be a pararibulitis attack. And, in any case, he knows that Rook doesn’t need a pill to kill him. He makes up his mind and downs all three, and he’s able to take two mouthfuls of water before Rook abruptly takes the bottle out of his hand again.

“Good.”

Todd glowers at the praise, but the other man only looks back with amusement.

“Hungry?” Rook asks, like they’re not kidnapper and kidnappee standing on the side of a deserted road. Todd gawks at him as the older man reaches back into the car and pulls out a little white paper bag. For a split second Todd’s confused--then he recognizes the red logo.

“Are you serious?” Todd’s voice is rough, but he doesn’t know if that’s from being in the trunk for a few hours or if it’s from whatever the hell he just swallowed. 

“What, you don’t like Five Guys?”

Todd can only stare, baffled. Rook’s friendly demeanor shifts into something subdued and solemn. “You need to eat something, Todd. It’s not good to take medication on an empty stomach.”

“You seriously expect me to--”

Rook takes a step forward into his space, cornering him against the sedan. The other man unfurls the top of the bag, takes out a lump of greasy paper, and grabs Todd’s wrist. Todd watches, feeling floaty and detached, as the hamburger is put into his hand. 

He looks at Rook, then at the burger, and back up at Rook, who is now looking distinctly unhappy. “I’m going to need you to cooperate with me here, Todd,” he says. It’s getting harder to read his face in the dusky light, but Todd sees an animal anger behind the dullness in Rook’s eyes. 

"Where are we?" Todd asks sullenly. He tries to hide the way his hands are shaking but there's really no disguising it.

"Eat your burger, Todd."

"Who the fuck _are you_?"

The man frowns and it’s a disappointed sort of expression, like something a father would direct at a wayward son, but then Rook abruptly smiles at him like they’re old pals. Todd's head spins with the effort of keeping up. It's like Rook can't decide what role he wants to play, and that frightens Todd almost as much as the fact that he's been abducted from a goddamn hospital.

“You can eat that, or I can hurt you and make you eat it,” Rook says calmly. 

Todd looks down at the burger, dizzy with the realization that he doesn’t doubt the man for a moment. The tremors in his hands abruptly get worse and drops the sandwich, swaying back into the car, his head pounding.

“What was that white pill?” Todd rasps, belatedly realizing that he’s made a terrible mistake. Had the red pills even _been_ antipsychotics? Why had he been so certain that they were?

Rook watches him passively, his expression unreadable. Then he crouches, reassembles the burger, and puts it back in Todd’s hands. 

“Eat it.”

“You can’t be serious,” Todd croaks. Rook tilts his head and frowns as though he’s considering his options. He seems to decide on one and in a blur of motion Todd feels the impact of a fist into his left eye. 

He reels back with a cry and starts to slip down the side of the car, but Rook’s got him by the shirt collar now. His vision swims sickeningly, and he groans as the sky shifts in a hushed swirl of grey and violet.

There a soft sigh against his face, and then a monotone, “pick it up.”

He’s dropped to the ground. He immediately raises a shaking hand to touch the tender skin above his cheekbone and winces. It’s not the first time he’s been hit in the face, not even the first time that year, but _goddamn_ did it hurt. 

Rook’s waiting. Todd can feel his growing frustrating even from his place in the dirt, and he’s stubborn but he’s not stupid. 

He reaches an unsteady hand toward the abused sandwich and drags it toward him, then props himself up against the car. He stares down at it and considers trying to wipe the debris off, but he’s not sure he can hold steady enough for that and he’s pretty sure a little dirt never killed anyone. 

Todd takes a small bite and swallows as fast as he can, focusing on the mechanical act of chewing instead of the fact that it’s been knocked to the ground twice. He finishes half of it and then gives up, fearful of the repercussion but too weak to do anything about it. In a show of mercy Rook hauls him up and smiles blankly at him. 

“It was one of the first things I said to you, wasn’t it?” 

It sounds like a rhetorical question. Todd weakly raises his eyes to meet Rook’s gaze.

“You’re going to have to learn to listen, Todd.”

The man pats him fondly on the shoulder, then pulls out a strip of rough cloth from his jacket pocket. 

Todd only manages to put up a token fight as he’s gagged and stuffed back in the trunk.

◈ ◈ ◈

The drive out of Seattle had been nothing less than a test of patience for Farah. Dirk had flitted between hysteria and denial the entire time, asking question after question and not stopping for a moment to take a breath. Farah had taken the usual precautions in the form a dizzying route through the city and it had cost them time, much to Dirk’s aggravation, but she wasn’t about to start taking risks now. She’d had reminded him through gritted teeth that the objective was _not to be captured_ , and it meant that they had to be cautious if they were to have any hope of evading Blackwing.

Dirk’s sat in a sullen silence for the twenty minute drive north to Lynnwood. Farah’s content to let him sulk, but his vague direction of ‘north’ isn’t going to be enough anymore, so she pulls off of the I-5 and finds an outlet mall parking lot. She turns off the SUV and then turns to the detective, who is stubbornly observing the shops in the half-light. 

Farah sighs. “Dirk, look--I know this isn’t how you want to handle it. But you have to trust me.”

He slowly turns to face her, and he’s still looking mulish but at least he’s listening. 

“Todd and I, we already went through this back when you were taken. We weren’t careful and we _barely_ got away that time. The CIA has resources and manpower--we have to take them seriously as a threat.”

“You think I’m not taking them seriously?” Dirk demands, eyes flashing in the gloom.

“I know you are. I know you’re worried about Todd and that you’re going to do whatever it takes to get him back.” Dirk nods slowly at this, as though he’s reluctant to agree with her on principle but he’s not about to deny that he wouldn’t go to the moon and back to save his friend. “We’re going to get him back, Dirk. We are. But we can’t do that if we’re captured ourselves.”

“I know that,” he whispers, his eyes haunted. 

“I need you to stay with me. I can’t--I can’t do this alone, Dirk. It was bad enough the first time,” she confesses, and she can barely believe she’s reliving the two months prior to Bergsberg--the mad dash out of Seattle with Blackwing on her heels, the terror of losing a friend to the unknown. But it’s somehow even worse this time around. She would never admit it out loud, but she would rather deal with Todd any day, pararibulitis attacks and all, than a distressed Dirk. She loves him like family but she’s never had the same bond that Todd’s had with the detective--she just doesn’t have Todd’s patience for Dirk’s antics, or his enthusiasm for the supernatural nonsense that follow Dirk like a black cloud. 

She doesn’t want adventure, she just wants to survive.

Dirk’s staring down into his lap, hands loosely clenched, and Farah dismisses her traitorous thoughts in favor of figuring out the next step. The amber streetlights abruptly flicker on and she glances around the parking lot. 

“We should switch cars,” she mutters, more to herself than anything, but Dirk looks up with alarm. 

“You mean, steal one? Won’t that draw attention to us?”

“Maybe. But it’s better than continuing to drive around in a rental under my brother’s name.” She takes a deep breath, assessing the assortment of vehicles. “Besides, cars get stolen every day, they might not be able to pin down which one we’ve taken right away. I think it’s worth the risk.”

Dirk hesitantly bobs his head and she feels an unexpected rush of relief. Whatever issues they have with one another, he trusts her with this because this is what she does best. 

“But before we do that, we need to know where we’re going. Once we switch cars, we’ll need to get back on the freeway right away.”

“Okay.” He shrugs and she can see that he doesn’t understand.

“You said north… that’s based on one of your hunches, right?” she asks, earning another slow nod. “But, Dirk, can you be any more specific than that? We can take the I-5 up through Everett or we can take the 525 up through Whidbey Island.”

Dirk blinks, his eyes looking huge and scared in the harsh yellow light cast by the streetlamps. “I’m--I don’t know, Farah.”

“Can you try harder?”

He makes a frustrated noise. “That’s not--”

“How it works. Right. Sorry.” She watches as Dirk drops his head, and after a moment of consideration she reaches out and lays her hand across his arm. “Dirk, I know how hard this is. I know how much you care about him.”

He raises his eyes at that, his chin jutting out in a stubborn challenge. “Do you?”

“Yes,” Farah says quietly. “I know enough, anyway.”

Dirk shakes his head and pulls his arm away, but then he shudders and puts his face in his hands. “Why is this happening? What do they want with him? He’s not--he’s not like me. I don’t understand.”

He’s not crying but he’s close enough to it that Farah feels uncomfortable. She turns her gaze back to the windshield, deciding on another SUV across the way. “I don’t know either,” she admits. “But it doesn’t matter. We’re going to bring him home.”

Dirk’s quiet for a long time. Farah’s debating whether or not to just go hotwire the Honda or wait him out when he lifts his head, wipes his cheeks, and says in a dull voice, “it doesn’t matter. The I-5 or the… the 25--”

“525,” she corrects in a small voice. He shoots her a reproachful look and she has the grace to be embarrassed. 

“Yes, the 525. It doesn’t matter. They both lead north, right?”

“Yes, but--”

“Then it doesn’t matter.”

Farah waits, hoping he’s got more than that to share, but he turns away to rest his forehead against the passenger window. 

“Okay, we’ll just go north,” Farah soothes. 

She has the Honda hotwired and their gas canisters transferred over in under ten minutes.

◈ ◈ ◈

“So, boss, what’s the word?”

Ken glances up. Priest saunters into the little office, looking as on-edge as Ken’s ever seen him. 

“I don’t even know where to start,” he admits, leaning back in the chair as Priest perches rudely on the corner of the desk. 

“Start with who the fuck Bishop really is.”

“Okay,” Ken agrees amiably. It was as good a place as any. “The information in his file says his full name is Alexander Bishop. Born in Maine in nineteen seventy-two, which makes him forty-six years old.”

Priest grunts impatiently--he clearly wants something more useful. 

“He was recruited into Blackwing in Oregon. Apparently he met a couple of our agents while they were down there investigating that warp house, and he--”

“Wormed himself into their good graces?”

Ken pauses at the hostility in Priest’s voice. He dips his head in acknowledgement and continues, “after a couple of conversations they encouraged him to apply. He did, and he was screened and admitted at the Medford office. We’re opening an investigation into the management down in Medford--Bishop got in with fake credentials, we need to know why.”

“Like I said, he’s a worm,” the other man retorts, but the heat in his eyes is fading. “Were you able to confirm? Is he Succubus?”

“We’re as sure as we can be at this point. The timelines certainly match up. Same age, same general description, grew up on the east coast. But Blackwing never got close enough to get a clear photograph back then. We have two stills from security footage from 2002, but we can’t verify beyond all doubt that it’s a match.”

“Aaron Knight,” Priest suddenly barks out with a laugh. “I remember tracking him down in New York, back for Blackwing’s first round-up.”

“That’s right. We’re sure it’s another alias, but there is a pattern. Bishop, Knight--”

“Guess he’s got a thing for chess.”

Ken nods enthusiastically, glad Priest is on the same page. “It’s in line with what we think we know about Project Succubus. His powers function the same way that Project Incubus' do, but the way he finds and interacts with his victims is the complete opposite. The Rowdy 3 are loud, chaotic--they're a bomb going off. They use fear as a tactic to subdue others.”

Ken stands and begins to pace in front of the little window that overlooks the city. “Succubus, on the other hand, uses seduction. Or something like it. He's a chameleon. Or maybe it’s more accurate to call him a snake. He fabricates a life, a personality, in order to get close to his victims, then he sheds his skin when he's through with them.” 

He frowns out at the blinking lights. “Incubus and Succubus--They’re two sides of the same coin but they’ve got their own distinct methods of getting what they want. Bishop knows how to get people to trust him, and that usually means thinking ten steps ahead.”

“Hence the chess names,” Priest drawls with indifference, but Ken thinks he also sounds a little impressed. 

“That’s right.”

“Guess he thinks he’s real clever.”

“He had you fooled, didn’t he?” Ken challenges with a raised eyebrow, and Priest positively vibrates with vexation in response. Ken aptly notes that that’s still a sore spot. “He was also able to pass Blackwing’s screen phase, most likely by befriending whoever was in charge of the credential and background checks. He didn’t stand out in a room full of trained agents, and yes, he even managed to sit in a car with you for _hours_ at a time, all without raising suspicion.”

Priest’s eyes flash a warning but Ken’s not so easily cowed these days. “Not to mention the fact that he slipped Blackwing’s net sixteen years ago--”

“Slipped me, you mean? Now Ken, don’t pretend you didn’t read my name in that report.”

“My point is, this is what Succubus _does_ ,” Ken says. “He’s a seducer, a strategist. That’s his whole _thing_ \--it’s really no wonder he got away.”

“So what exactly is it that he wants? What's the master plan, and what does it have to do with Brotzman?”

Ken leans against the window, relishing the feel of the cold glass through his shirt. “I've been thinking a lot about that. He took big risks to snatch Todd Brotzman right out from under your nose.”

Priest's face twitches. Ken considers telling him not to take things so personally but he’s reasonably sure that won’t go over well. Instead, he slides a thin packet of papers across the desk. Priest picks it up with a frown. 

“What’s this?”

“A time-off request. And an itinerary.” 

Priest raises his eyebrows and then examines the documents more closely. He swears under his breath and has the gall to look amused when he meets Ken’s eyes again. “He was in Kentucky.”

“Yes.”

“Goddamn.”

“His time-off request stated that he was going to be visiting family down in Oregon, something about an uncle passing away. But according to his credit card purchases and information from the airline, he flew out to Lexington, Kentucky three days before we got the call about Project Incubus.”

“That son of a bitch.”

“As for why he wants Todd Brotzman--I can't confirm this yet, but I think it has something to do with pararibulitis.”

That earns a curious frown. “What do you mean?”

“Think about it,” Ken says with excitement, “why would Bishop be in Kentucky only days after we got intelligence suggesting Project Incubus might be in that area? Why would he lie about being in Oregon?”

Priest furrows his brow and asks the obvious: “you’re thinking he went out there to make contact with Incubus?”

“Yes,” Ken agrees breathlessly. 

“And, what, then he anonymously called _us_ in on them?” Priest adopts a skeptical smile. “Now why would he do that, Mr. Supervisor?”

“I believe Bishop joined Blackwing to get information. On what exactly, I don't know. But when he found out Incubus' location, he lies to us to get time off, flies out, presumably meets up with them, and then calls Blackwing to pick them up once he gets what he wants. Or, maybe it’s that they wouldn’t give him what he wanted.”

“...Okay, sure. But why bring us into it?”

“Well. Look at what he does next. He comes back to Blackwing, immediately asks to be stationed in Seattle, and then gets himself put on the team watching Icarus.”

“With the intention of getting close to Brotzman.”

“Right!” Ken exclaims. “We can assume he met Amanda Brotzman if he met the Rowdy 3 in Kentucky.”

“And he then proceeds to abduct her brother?” Priest asks with a stilted laugh. 

“In Incubus' file it’s speculated that they feed off of Amanda Brotzman's pararibulitis attacks. This is supported by eyewitness statements from the Grocery Outlet parking lot, back when everything was blowing up with the Spring family.”

“I remember the report,” Priest intones dryly. 

“If I had to guess, and it is just a guess--they must have some kind of symbiotic relationship. The Rowdy 3 get access to a veritable buffet of psychic energy, and there must be _some_ benefit to Amanda because she's stuck close to them ever since. My theory is that the feeding somehow _stops_ the pararibulitis attack.”

Priest nods begrudgingly. “So, what, Succubus gets the idea in his head that he wants Brotzman to be his own personal energy snackpack?”

“That is my theory, yes. It’s possible he reported the Rowdy 3 anonymously so that he would have time to track down and take Brotzman. And what does that tell us? It tells us that Succubus most likely has bad intentions, and, more importantly, it tells us that Project Succubus and Project Incubus are not working together.”

A short silence falls, and they stare at one another from across the desk as Priest thinks it over. “Sounds like you’ve got it all figured out,” he intones flatly, but his mouth is twitching in the corners. Ken shrugs, not particularly inclined toward gloating or humility. 

“I told you before, I’ve seen it--the way it all works. I don’t know that I’m right, but--”

“But you’ve got a hunch,” Priest jokes.

“Something like that.”

“‘M’kay. Well. What’re we gonna do about Bishop now?”

Ken returns to his chair and sits down, then steeples his fingers together on the surface of the desk. “Now you do your job. Operation Idun is still our priority.”

Priest’s face tightens with an eager sort of hunger. It’s a scary expression and Ken is glad to have the man on his side. 

“We need to secure Icarus’ secondary. If Bishop is an obstacle to that…”

“What happened to not harming the primaries?” comes a sarcastic retort, and Ken can only offer another shrug. 

“Succubus’ existence is none of our concern. He doesn’t serve a higher function for the universe. The only thing you need to worry about is getting Brotzman back alive, otherwise Dirk Gently will never fall into step.”

“And if Brotzman’s already dead?”

“I don’t think that’s likely,” Ken admits. “If we’re right about the relationship between Succubus and energy, and how that translates with pararibulitis, Bishop’s not about to give up his all-access pass to a good meal. But… if something does go wrong and Brotzman dies, bring his body back. We may somehow still be able to use it as leverage for Icarus.”

“And Project Succubus?”

Ken’s smile is a cold, brittle thing. “Would no longer be an asset to Blackwing,” he confirms. He doesn’t need to elaborate--he’s certain Priest can read between the lines.

The creepy-crawly grin that finds its way onto the man’s face is proof enough that he does.

◈ ◈ ◈ 

Dirk listens in a daze as Farah makes a call to Tina. He can only hear Farah’s part of the conversation, but it’s obvious that the Bergsberg deputy and sheriff are on their way. Dirk tunes the rest out. Tina and Sherlock Hobbs were wonderful people, but they aren’t particularly competent law enforcement officers and he doesn’t know what help they’ll be in finding Todd. It’s hard to think about much beyond that.

Farah disconnects and Dirk feels her uneasy gaze, but he can’t bring himself to face her. Instead, he stares at his dim reflection in the window and the night beyond.

“Dirk…” Farah begins tentatively, then seems to rethink her approach. He considers keeping his tight grip on his silence, but with a shuddering breath he lets his frustrations with her go. It’s not her fault--not any of it. If anything, the blame lies squarely on his own shoulders.

He clears his throat and turns to her, and he’s rewarded with a small, sad smile. 

“What is it?” he asks, but a part of him already knows what she’s going to say. She chews it over for a few more moments anyway. 

“Dirk I just--I need to ask.”

“Yes?”

She glances over again, the streetlights chasing shadows across her face. “That man back there, he was Carl Bates. As in, Cheryl Bates’ son? The woman who lived in Todd’s apartment before him?”

“That’s correct,” he replies, retreating back to a sullen frown. 

“It’s no coincidence that he was there. Was it?”

Dirk settles for shaking his head.

“So that means…” Farah trails off. Dirk waits her out. “That means that, to an extent, that was _meant_ to happen. That--all of this, it was predestined.”

“I suppose so.” He turns back to the window so that he doesn’t have to watch the confusion creep into her eyes. 

“The universe knew that we would need funds. Untraceable funds. Which means that it’s possible--even probable--”

“That it knew Todd would be taken?” he interrupts. 

“Yes, that. Or--”

“That it _wanted_ him to be taken?”

There’s a reasonable silence after that, one that Farah can’t seem to reconcile. Dirk can’t either. He stares into his own haunted eyes in the glass. “I don’t know,” he murmurs, but his treacherous heart says otherwise. 

Best case scenario, Todd is a pawn. A piece to be moved around some cosmic chess board, likely bait to draw Dirk into another terrible, violent situation. 

Worst case… he can’t bring himself to even think about it. 

Farah respectfully lets the conversation drop but Dirk keeps going with it in his head for a long time afterward. He watches the night slip by, illuminated only by the occasional streetlamp or passing car, and he takes comfort in the fact that for all of their faults, Blackwing has no reason to _harm_ Todd. They’re monsters, but even they don’t resort to torture needlessly. His own tests had been unpleasant, some more painful than others, but in Riggins’ eyes they’d had a purpose--to identify and quantify the paranormal. But Todd wasn’t like him. He wasn’t special in _that_ way. There was no need to test him.

Except--

Except, hadn’t Amanda done extraordinary things? Things seemingly gifted to her by virtue of her familial disease? The same disease Todd had been hospitalized for only _two days_ before his abduction? 

Dirk cheerfully realizes that he’s never hated himself more. If that was the case, if Todd _was_ special like that, Dirk had all but handed him to Blackwing on a silver platter. But he forbids himself from moping about that for even a second longer. There would be plenty of time to revel in it later--his self-pity would have to wait until Todd was brought home, safe and sound.

◈ ◈ ◈ 

Todd finds it’s impossible to tell time from inside of a trunk. His head is mush, his thoughts sticky after a brief period of unconsciousness. It takes him a moment to realize that he’s got a gag in his mouth and his hands bound behind his back. He rocks back and forth with the motion of the car, his stomach lurching. His throat clenches and he feels bile rising up, but he’s able to swallow it down, groaning with disgust.

He can’t throw up. 

He’ll choke to death if he does. 

Todd squeezes his eyes shut as hard as he can and he draws a deep breath in through his nose. His left eye aches terribly and his shoulders are getting sore, but his headache is by far the worst of it--sharp pain creeps along his skull, jolted by every bump and turn in the road. 

He’s just gotten his nausea under control when a terrifyingly familiar tingle starts in the base of his spine. His skin tightens, itches, and he abruptly recognizes the symptoms. 

_‘Oh god,’_ he tries to say around the cloth, and he moans out what would otherwise be a pleading _‘no’_ right before the attack hits.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I feel like I say it every time, but I just want to say it again: I really appreciate every comment and kudo. Like, every time I post a chapter there's this moment of *Friedkin voice* _does this story suck?_ , so it's really validating to know people are reading and enjoying it. Especially since this seems like a pretty small fandom right now--you guys are amazing and incredibly sweet for taking the time to let me know what you think, and I'm so grateful for that ♡
> 
> Also, just a heads up, but I might change the name of this fic. Splitting it up from 'Tessellation' had been pretty impulsive so I didn't have anything ready lol. Not sure that I can come up with something better, but please don't be alarmed if it suddenly changes to something else!


	3. Safe and Sound

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey guys! So I'm going to be traveling for part of May and I'm not how often I'll get to write and post while I'm away. I'm hoping to post two updates a week but I can't promise anything, and in light of that I hope you enjoy this particularly lengthy chapter!

Todd opens his eyes. Or, more precisely, he opens his right eye because his left one is swollen shut. 

The first thing he notices is that everything hurts. The second thing he notices is that he’s not in the trunk anymore--he’s on his back on the floor of a van, wrapped tight in blankets. The word ‘swaddled’ pops into his hysterical mind. Between that and the horrifying weariness that washes through him he can’t move much, but he manages to angle his head enough to see a grey sky through the rain-dappled windows.

They’re in a different car. He has no idea when that happened, but he’s so damn grateful to be out of the trunk that he doesn’t think too hard about it.

But that’s about when the smell hits. 

Acidic, sour--a distantly familiar smell from his band days. One usually associated with too much beer. 

He attempts to lift his head but finds that he’s too weak to do much other than roll it to the side. He tries not to feel too embarrassed about the fact that he’d clearly thrown up on himself at some point.

 _‘Extenuating circumstances,’_ as Farah would say. 

Thinking about Farah hurts, and it leads to thoughts of Dirk, and Amanda--

“You’re awake,” comes a cheerful voice from the front of the van. Todd doesn’t need to loll his head around to know it’s Rook. “You had me worried, Todd.”

He tries for a strangled, angry laugh at that, but it’s more of an aggressive exhale. He breaks out into a cold sweat when he feels the car pull over and come to a stop. A car door opens, closes, and opens again, and suddenly Rook is propping him up against the bench of seats in the back.

“Here, drink,” the man commands politely. He holds up an uncapped bottle of water and Todd tries to reach for it, then his foggy brain catches up with the fact that he’s still swaddled like an oversized infant. 

Humiliation and anger burn at him. Rook looks amused. 

“Are you going to behave?” 

Todd doesn’t know what the fuck that’s supposed to mean, but he’s nodding before he can think twice about it. Rook delicately sets the water bottle down, adjusts the top quilt, and then Todd can suddenly breathe a little easier. He struggles to wiggle an arm free but it feels like his limb has been filled with lead, and it flops pathetically against his side once it’s out of the blanket. 

He reaches for the water bottle but only succeeds in nearly knocking it over. Rook tuts and picks it up, then holds it up to Todd’s face. Todd has to decide if he’s going to let him pour water into his mouth or if he’s going to die of thirst. 

The taste of bile in his mouth decides it for him, but he despises every moment. 

Rook allows him to drink half of the bottle, then caps it and sets it aside. He sits across from Todd and observes him intently. 

“I’m surprised. You had a pararibulitis attack in the trunk.”

“I know,” Todd says--or tries to say. The words don’t really come out right, but Rook seems to understand them all the same. 

“I’ve got you so drugged up, I didn’t think that was possible. Have you been taking the recommended dosage? Your tolerance must be higher than I calculated.”

Todd can only stare helplessly. 

“Well,” Rook sighs, “thankfully you made enough noise that I got to you in time. It was a close call, though. So, no more trunks, I guess.” 

The man offers him a rueful smile, like this is something they need to brainstorm and come to a consensus on, and Todd would laugh if he thought he could manage it. 

“But that means we need to lay down some ground rules.” Rook grabs him hard by the chin and Todd inhales sharply in fear. “You’re going to behave, or I’m going to start cutting.”

Todd’s brain can’t quite process that in time, so he blinks in bewilderment up at Rook, who raises his eyebrows slowly. 

“I need you alive, Todd. But I don’t need _all_ of you.”

There’s a buzzing sound in his head and he can very literally feel the blood drain from his face. He wants to protest, to promise that won’t be necessary, but he can’t manage to say a word. 

Rook seems to read it in his eyes all the same. He releases Todd’s chin and lightly pats him on the cheek, suddenly back to his playful personality. “I want to keep you in good condition, though. So do us both a favor--don’t make me resort to that.”

“Okay,” Todd’s mouth says, seemingly of it’s own volition. 

“We’ll stop to get you a change of clothes soon. I cleaned you up as best I could, but you made quite the mess. Still, I guess I should be grateful that you didn’t piss yourself.”

Todd’s pretty fucking grateful for that, too, but that doesn’t seem to be the response Rook is waiting for. And he’s definitely waiting for something. 

His stomach twists with realization. In an attempt to forgive himself for being a coward, he falls back on a now familiar question: What Would Farah Do? She would survive. She would say or do whatever it took to survive.

“Thank you,” he rasps out.

Rook smiles benignly, then helps to unwrap the rest of the blankets that he’s got Todd bundled up in. “Buckle up, Todd,” he says fondly, gesturing at the seats, then he slips out of the car. Todd shakily pulls himself up and collapses to the row of seats. It takes four tries to get the buckle in, but his trembling hands eventually manage it. 

Rook climbs back into the driver’s seat and starts the car, but Todd struggles to keep his eyes open after that. He tries to track their progress and plan an escape, knowing the likelihood that Rook is taking him on a pleasant shopping trip is ludicrous. But, true to his word, Rook pulls into the parking lot of a mall and selects an empty space near the Macy’s. 

Todd watches the small crowd of shoppers pacing to or from their cars and he takes a moment to think over his options. He glances up at Rook, who is watching him thoughtfully in the rearview mirror. Feeling caught out, Todd hastily looks away. 

“I can’t decide what it is that I should do with you,” the man admits after a few moments of scrutiny. “Are you going to behave, Todd?”

It sounds rehearsed, performative even, and Todd suddenly realizes that it might be a test. And if that was the case, Rook was certainly somehow prepared for disobedience. His left eye throbs as if to remind him of how his defiance has previously been rewarded. 

Todd thinks of Farah. He feels her warm hand on top of his and for a moment he’s back in that car in Bergsberg.

“I’ll behave,” he says with as much confidence as he can muster. His abductor turns around in the seat and stares, assessing, and then gives him the first genuine smile Todd’s seen.

“Good. Thank you.”

Todd abruptly wonders if the man is insane. But his reactions are too calculated, too controlled--it’s like Rook is reading from a script that Todd can’t read.

The man gets out of the car, then walks around the front to slide the van’s backdoor open. Todd sucks in the fresh, cold air, nearly dizzy with the relief of it after sitting with the stale stench of his own vomit. 

Rook gestures with his hand and Todd slowly wobbles out, trying not to pull away in fear when Rook provides a helpful, steadying hand. 

Todd blinks and shivers in the morning drizzle and somehow isn’t all that surprised when Rook pulls a too-large jacket out of the front seat and hands it over. Todd holds onto it limply. He doesn’t want to wear Rook’s jacket, doesn’t want anything to do with it, but he instinctively knows that this is a test, too.

_If you can’t comply with this, how can I trust you in there?_

Todd slides the black jacket on and flinches when Rook leans in to zip it up for him. Todd stares with his one good eye.

“Come on. We’ll get you some clothes and then something to eat.”

Rook’s large hand splays between his shoulder blades and roughly pushes him forward, and he’s forced to stumble along in front of the other man. He hopes it looks strange, strange enough to draw attention, but no one even glances at them as they push through the glass doors and step inside the massive department store.

Rook makes a beeline for the little directory board and Todd looks around, trying to catch someone’s eye because someone _must_ notice him, pale and bruised and quivering, but the one stare he gets is distinctly unfriendly. An older woman looks him up and down; _drugged out punk_ , her eyes blink at him.

He tries to convey his distress, tries to make her understand without a word, but she’s already moving past them toward the perfume section.

Rook’s hand grips him hard by the elbow and he’s pulled away to the Men’s Department.

◈ ◈ ◈

Dirk’s in a cautiously optimistic mood. Sleeping in the SUV hadn’t been nearly as uncomfortable as the Jeep had been--the passenger seat reclined nearly all the way flat and he’d fallen asleep with much more ease than he’d anticipated. Farah doesn’t seem to have fared as well. Her tolerance for his antics was at an all-time low and she seemed to have trouble keeping her eyes open for the first stretch of the drive, but she’d refused to let him behind the wheel.

And, aside from the likely lack of sleep, she seemed to be losing patience with his ‘directions’. In his defense, trying to harness the complexities of tracking a moving target by sheer virtue of intuition was a very, _very_ inpercise practice. They’d made it all the way up to Bellingham, just forty minutes shy of the Canadian border, before Dirk had demanded that she turn around and head south again. He’d abruptly directed her east onto the SR-20 in a near panic, which had resulted Farah taking a very nerve-wracking turn at the last moment. 

They’d resumed driving at sunrise and had hit Omak about two hours later. Dirk had prompted her to continue east, then south, then west, then south, and they were both sick of one another by the time the afternoon stretched into early evening. 

But at least they’re done driving for the day.

Dirk squints against the obnoxious sun, which has fallen too low to block out with the car’s visor. He mutters about sunglasses as they enter the city limits of Spokane.

“We should find somewhere to rest,” Farah suggests, looking haggard. “A hotel, or even a motel. I cannot spend another night in this car.”

Dirk makes a noncommittal noise, his eyes tracking the buildings through the hazy spattering of rain. 

“We need to find a place that takes cash, one that doesn’t ask for ID.”

“Is that… hard?” he asks. Farah makes a sharp right-hand turn and doesn’t answer for a moment.

“It can be difficult these days. Everyone wants ID, unless they’re paid not to care.” She glances at him and he nods along, though he’s not exactly sure what that means. She knows him well enough to elaborate. “We’ll have to overpay to stay somewhere that would otherwise be bad enough to be cheap.”

“Ah. And I take it you know how to find such an establishment?” he questions, earning a curt nod in return. “I see. Was that in your purview as Patrick Spring’s bodyguard?”

Farah snorts in a way he takes to mean ‘shut up’. She drives, seemingly aimlessly, and eventually pulls into the parking lot of a run-down four-story hotel with a neon sign that reads _Paradise Inn_ in pink. Dirk squints up at the narrow building suspiciously. 

“Let me do the talking,” Farah advises, climbing out of the car, but Dirk shakes his head. 

“I’m the one with the money, Farah, and I can handle this.” He’s not sure why he’s being stubborn, but he’s tired of following uselessly at her heels--he wants to _do something_. Even if that was just booking a room from a questionable enterprise. 

“Dirk--”

He speed-walks into the lobby before she can force the wallet away from him.

“We need a room!” Dirk proclaims with importance, then winces as the door slams shut behind him. The scrawny-looking man behind the desk sighs and looks up from beneath his heavy brow.

“Single or a double?”

“How about a double?” Dirk asks, then looks to Farah for reassurance. She gives him a strained smile and he takes that as a good thing. Two was better than one, right?

“What name should I put the reservation under?”

“Er,” Dirk looks in panic to Farah, whose eyes widen comically. “Renfield,” he blurts out, turning back to the manager with a blinding smile. Farah’s eyes positively bulge at his choice but the man doesn’t even glance in her direction.

“First name?” he asks, sounding bored.

Dirk feels his eyes glaze over for a moment, desperately struggling to remember the novel Todd had lent him. The first name of the character eludes him. “J-John?”

“Okay. That’ll be fifty-nine ninety-nine.”

Dirk scrambles to fish the money out of his wallet. “That’s a great price, wonderful,” he babbles mindlessly. The man’s expression of aggressive boredom suddenly softens into a teasing smile. His eyes shift to Farah, who stiffens noticeably beside him, but Dirk doesn’t get it. 

The man noisily shuffles through a desk drawer and produces a small envelope with two plastic cards tucked inside. He writes something on the outside of the envelope and hands it to Dirk with what might have been a wink. “Have fun.”

Dirk cocks his head and smiles back, puzzled, and then Farah’s barking a cold, “thank you,” and dragging him back out of the lobby. 

Dirk’s quite pleased with himself but Farah whirls on him once they’re a safe distance into the parking lot. _“Renfield?_ ” she asks, incredulous. “What--where did that come from?”

“Todd’s been lending me novels,” Dirk informs her, and his chest burns cold at the memory. “He said, ‘Dirk, you need to stop being a bloody moron and get with it with some pop culture’.”

“He didn’t say that.”

“I’m paraphrasing, Farah. It’s not an exact quote.”

Farah sighs, but she relaxes once he hands the key cards over. “Dracula, huh?”

“It was an interesting novel. Wasn’t much of a fan of the movie.”

“He had you watch the movie, too?”

Dirk offers her a sad smile, eyes stinging. “We watched it together a few weeks ago.”

Her face contorts with pity but Dirk doesn't mind. He certainly feels pitiful. Farah pats him on the shoulder after a long moment and then glances down at the little white envelope in her hand. Her eyes widen. "Room 402?"

Dirk swallows hard. "That's--that was Todd's--"

"His hospital room number," Farah agrees quietly. They share a glance and Dirk resists the urge to throw up on his shoes. “Dirk… this is… is this all connected? Is this--”

“I don’t know,” he tells her miserably. He rubs hard at his eyes. “I don’t know.”

“Okay. It’s okay,” Farah soothes, but Dirk doesn’t know how she could _possibly_ say that. “Let’s just… let’s just get our things and get settled. Are you hungry?”

“No,” he mutters, but obediently follows her to the car. They pull out the change of clothing they’d bought at a Walmart along the way and then head back inside, past the smirking clerk. 

They struggling to get the door lock to accept the keycard, but eventually the red light blinks green and they stumble inside. Dirk wants to curl up on the floor and sleep for a week, but Farah drags him over to one of the narrow beds. She sits him down and puts her hands on his shoulders, forcing him to sit still and look up at her.

“Dirk, we need supplies. We need water and food, and it’s time to get those phones. I want you to stay here, okay?”

“Why?” he asks petulantly. The idea of sitting alone and staring at the wall for an hour sounds good to him, but he doesn’t like the implication that he can’t manage to get _groceries_. 

“You look tired.”

Dirk is tired. But he’s not so sure that’s the real reason Farah wants to leave him behind. With a flash of pain he realizes that maybe this is what Todd had been complaining about--being a burden, being left out. “Okay,” he agrees, suddenly weak with grief. 

Surprised by the sudden compliance--or perhaps by the drawn look on his face--Farah frowns but leans away. She studies him for a moment, then she presses one of the keycards into his palm. “I’ll be back soon,” she promises, and he nods but suddenly the carpet is very interesting to him and he can’t quite lift his eyes away from it. 

He hears her make a soft, sad sound, and then she’s gone. 

Dirk curls up on top of the comforter, clutching the little plastic card to his chest in an attempt to keep his hands still. He desperately wants to pull out his phone. Farah had demanded that he turn it off, convinced that the CIA could track it and possibly even _hear_ them through the device’s microphone. Dirk had protested passionately--what if Todd called? But that had only resulted in a minor concession: they could each turn their phones on for one minute, once every three hours, to check for a message. They’d last checked less than two hours ago.

But Farah was at the store and Dirk’s never had proper impulse control.

He sits up and digs the smartphone out of his jacket pocket, staring down at his own frightened expression in the reflection. He bites his lip and turns it on. It seems to take forever to boot up, and as always he holds his breath until he’s certain that the service has caught up and no messages are waiting for him. 

He should turn it off. It’s been at least two minutes. He is going to turn it off, of course he is, but he wonders if it would hurt to wait another minute--what was three, when he’d already exceeded Farah’s limit?

Dirk winds up staring down at his phone for over ten minutes. He’s finally convinced himself to turn it back off when it abruptly lights up and the soft crooning of a ‘90s boy band fills the room. Dirk drops the phone and scrambles to pick it up again.

He doesn’t recognize the number but that doesn’t mean anything--he knows Todd doesn’t have his cell phone. He doesn’t hesitate to swipe his thumb across the screen. 

“Hello?” he demands too loudly. There’s a pause on the other end, then a feminine voice answers.

_“Um, Dirk?”_

Dirk’s thoughts whirl--the voice is familiar, but it’s not Farah and it’s not Mona so who--?

“Cady!” he gasps in realization.

 _“Hi, Dirk,”_ she replies with more confidence, obviously pleased he recognizes the sound of her voice. 

“Cady, what’s going on? Are you--is Todd there?”

_“Huh? Todd? What?”_

Dirk’s shoulders fall with dismay. It had been a long shot, but… He clears his throat. “Nevermind. Is something the matter? Has something happened? Wait, how did you get this number?”

_“The landlord gave it to me?”_

“He did?” Dirk’s pretty sure that’s not legal. “You know what? That’s fine, nevermind. What happened?”

_“Um, nothing happened but I was just calling because I wanted to ask if you’ve seen my cat Dennis around yet?”_

Dirk bites his tongue, violently torn in two directions. Mona had seemingly adopted Dennis, had moved him into his own little catpartment above Todd’s flat, and the last thing he wanted was to upset her further by snitching to Dennis’ mother--owner--whatever. But, on the other hand, Cady had quite possibly _saved Todd’s life_. Giving her her damn cat back was the least that he could do.

“Er, actually, yes I--I believe I saw him go into a room on the third floor.”

 _“You did?”_ Cady shouts, and Dirk’s relieved to find that it’s an excited exclamation and not one of outrage. He’s especially glad that she doesn’t seem to think to question why he hadn’t shared the information earlier. _“Which one?”_

“The last room on the left, it looks like it’s an old caretaker--”

_“Okay, thanks, Dirk! Bye!”_

The phone beeps cheerfully. He stares bleakly down at it, wishing he had a means of contacting Mona to give her a heads-up. “No matter,” he murmurs fretfully to himself. “I’ll--I’ll find a way to make it up to her.”

Dirk decides to leave the phone on for another five minutes, just in case Cady calls back, just in case Farah needs to reach him or Todd--

He closes his eyes, waits for five minutes, then shuts it off and collapses back down onto the bed. He hugs the phone to his stomach and tries not to think about much of anything at all.

◈ ◈ ◈

Rook lets Todd clean up and change in the men’s room, and Todd’s not sure if he should be relieved or insulted that the man waits outside--he’s either very confident in his control over Todd or he’s very sure that Todd doesn’t have the capacity to find something to turn into a weapon.

As it turns out, Rook’s right on both counts. Todd finds nothing with which to defend himself in the sparse restroom--there’s not even a soap dispenser or trash can he can use, everything is bolted to the wall or the floor. He petulantly takes as long as he can, hoping someone else will come along, but he decides it’s better to surrender than to make Rook come in after him.

The man looks smug when Todd appears, and he wastes no time in securing an iron grip on Todd’s shoulder.

“Let’s get something to eat,” Rook suggests cheerfully, steering him out of the Macy’s and into the moderate crowd that fills the interior of the shopping center. Todd desperately tries to come up with a plan--something, anything, to draw attention long enough to slip away--but coherent thought loiters nebulously out of reach.

For a moment Todd’s certain that they’re headed to the food court and it’s like a punch to the gut. How long had it been since he had sat down across from Dirk and explored the black market potential of lawn art? His breathing gets shaky as his friend’s fond smile springs to mind. Dirk had been babbling about Alaska, about sled dogs or something, and Todd had had a startling realization: there had been no where he’d rather have been, and no one he’d rather have been with, in that moment. 

In a daze, he wonders what Dirk must be thinking, how the detective and Farah are handling his disappearance. Farah would be worried, but she would have a plan. Dirk would be frantic, without a doubt driving Farah up a wall with his self-described ‘stupid flighty bullshit’.

The thoughts threaten to overwhelm him, but in the end Rook doesn’t take him to the food court--of course he doesn’t, too many people, too much space--and instead drags Todd into some local chain, which strikes him as a very dimly lit Applebee’s. Rook finds a quiet corner and escorts Todd none-too-gently into the booth. 

He could run. He could scream for help. But he can hardly keep his eyes open and--

“Do I have to remind you of what you have to lose?” Rook asks, sitting down across from him and primly unfolding the cloth napkin. Todd shakes his head, not trusting himself to speak, and Rook nods and picks up the two-page menu.

He wonders how close Dirk and Farah are, if they even know he’s not in Seattle anymore. A part of him wants to believe that the universe would guide their way, but Farah’s words buzz around, unwelcome: _whatever this is, it doesn’t take sides._

He hopes it does, if only for Dirk’s sake. He’s terribly certain that his neurotic friend is already drowning in guilt, and the thought of it makes Todd’s chest hurt.

If only there was a way to leave a message for them, some kind of sign--

He’s spacing out and doesn’t realize Rook’s already ordered for him until the plate is dropped in front of him. He blinks down at the steak and looks up to find Rook’s got that same benign smile on.

For a wild moment Todd thinks he’s expected to say thank-you again, but Rook picks up his utensils and cuts his own sirloin into perfectly uniform strips. Todd watches the process with stupefied fascination.

Rook glances up again and has the nerve to look concerned.

“Aren’t you hungry? You should be. You threw up what little you managed to eat last night.”

“I’m--I don’tknow,” Todd mumbles in a rush. Rook’s face pulls into something sympathetic but his eyes don’t change--they remain dull and dark as ever. Todd thinks of a shark, or maybe a reptile--

He jumps when Rook abruptly switches their plates. The other man gestures loosely with his steak knife, as if to say ‘hurry up and eat’, and then begins cutting up the other steak.

Todd doesn’t appreciate being treated like a child. Rook’s cleaning him after being sick, zipping up his jacket against the cold, cutting his food for him--it’s enough to make Todd want to pick up his own knife and take his chances against Rook, but he can barely lift his hand to grope at the fork sitting right in front of him.

So, hand-to-hand combat was pretty much out of the question; he’s still got drugs are still in his system, he’s weak from the pararibulitis attack, and he legitimately doesn’t know what state he’s even in anymore. Farah definitely wouldn’t take those odds--she would bide her time and wait for an opportunity.

Todd spears a slice of meat and pushes it into his mouth, chewing mechanically. It doesn’t taste like much of anything but he is hungry, and he needs his strength, so he takes another piece, and then another, fighting against the conflicting sensations of hunger and nausea until a peppy waitress materializes in front of their table. Todd jumps badly but the woman hardly blinks at his overreaction.

He watches, paralyzed, as Rook strikes up a conversation, melting seamlessly into the role of a man out for a casual bite to eat. The woman smiles a lot until she glances at Todd--then she looks a bit nervous.

_’She thinks I’m some tweaker,’ _he realizes, suddenly knowing without a shadow of a doubt that no one would believe him if he were to stand up and scream for help. He drops his fork back onto the table and Rook shoots him a warning look.__

__“I’m so sorry about my brother’s manners, he’s been ill,” the man says smoothly, and it earns a compassionate noise from their waitress. Todd wants to laugh. Ill? He still can’t even open his left eye all the way._ _

__He’s so lost in wondering how she could think a black eye could factor into the equation that he doesn’t notice that he’s alone with his captor again until Rook points the steak knife at him and he flinches, remembering the threat. _Cut you up--__ _

__“You should try to finish it.”_ _

__Todd looks down at the plate, aching with misery, unable to bring himself to take another bite. “Why are you doing this to me?”_ _

__“I told you. Your sister sent me,” Rook answers without hesitation._ _

__Todd’s head hurts. “What… what are you saying? Amanda--”_ _

__“She told me all about you, Todd.” Rook takes a calculated bite and chews it slowly. Todd knows from personal experience he’s not savoring the taste. “She told me all about her piece of shit brother.”_ _

__Todd’s stomach drops._ _

__“She told me about what you did, Todd. What you did to your poor parents, what you did to your baby sister.”_ _

__Todd sways uneasily in the booth, unable to look away from Rook’s hollow eyes._ _

__“You’re lying.”_ _

__Rook considers him quietly, then begins eating again, like it doesn’t matter at all if Todd believes him or not._ _

__“I’ll tell you all about it, but first…”_ _

__Rook produces a ziplock bag from the pocket of his slacks and slides it across the table. Todd stares dumbly down--two red pills and one white. He finds it inappropriately hilarious that Rook had portioned out the doses in individual sandwich bags._ _

__“It’s up to you,” the man says. “You don’t have to take them. I won’t let you die, Todd, but it doesn’t really matter if you have an attack in the meantime.” Rook gently taps the white pill through the plastic. “A mild sedative. Take it with your antipsychotics, or don’t take any of them.”_ _

__Todd doesn’t believe Rook’s attempt at indifference, not for a moment, but in the end what difference did it make? The drugs hadn’t killed him the first time, and for one reason or another Rook did seem genuinely invested in his wellbeing. At least for the moment, anyway._ _

__Todd’s hand shakes, but he reaches out and takes the bag. Rook watches him swallow them with a distant sort of satisfaction._ _

__“Good. I’m glad you understand.”_ _

__Todd really, really doesn’t, but he can’t see the point in contradicting the other man. “My sister,” he prompts, earning a conflicted smile from Rook._ _

__“We should get back to the car.” Rook pulls out his wallet and deposits three crisp twenties on the table._ _

__“Wait. You said--”_ _

__“I’ll tell you all about Amanda, Todd. Don’t worry. I’m an honest man.”_ _

__“But--”_ _

__“But first we need to get to the car. The sedative is pretty fast-acting. I’d hate to make a scene dragging you across the mall.”_ _

__Todd wonders if maybe that wouldn’t be such a bad thing, but he’s starting to recognize Rook’s game. It’s another test._ _

__“And if I refuse?” he challenges, but the effect is somewhat diminished because he’s starting to slur._ _

__“That would be unfortunate.”_ _

__“You’d--you’d risk the police--”_ _

__That earns a hearty laugh from Rook. Todd stops dead when the man reaches down, because for a split second Todd’s positive he’s going to pull a knife._ _

__Rook opens and displays the inside panel of his wallet. “I don’t think the police would be inclined to believe you.”_ _

__Todd stares, stunned, at the little identification card and the three words printed in bold. _Central Intelligence Agency.__ _

__“Blackwing,” he breathes out. It should be a relief to know whose hands he’s in, but it only raises more questions. Why would a Blackwing agent abduct him but not Dirk? How did the man know Amanda? Was she safe--?_ _

__“That’s right.”_ _

__“Amanda--”_ _

__“I already told you, Todd. I’ll tell you all about her. But first we need to get back on the road.”_ _

__Rook stands, straightens his dress shirt, and then hauls Todd up by the arm. It hurts in a foggy sort of way but he can’t find the time to complain when he’s so focused on making one foot move in front of the other. They leave the restaurant and arrive at the van in between blinks and Todd reels, terrified of the fact that he’s losing time--he doesn’t even remember walking through the mall._ _

__The door slides open and Rook roughly maneuvers him inside, and Todd only hates himself a little bit for collapsing into the discarded blankets in relief. He struggles against the tide, fighting to stay awake as Rook pulls out of the parking lot and gets onto a freeway. Todd knows he should be trying harder to catch sight of a sign, or a landmark, but it’s all he can do to hold onto his sister’s name._ _

__“Amanda, where is she?” The slurring is pretty bad, but Rook understands all the same._ _

__“She’s in Kentucky. Or at least she was the last time I spoke to her.”_ _

__Todd blinks up at the ceiling of the van. “What did you do to her?”_ _

__“ _Do_ to her?” Rook chuckles, as if in disbelief. “I didn’t do anything to your sister, Todd. We just talked.”_ _

__“Talked--? Why--?”_ _

__Rook lets him stew in confusion for a moment, quietly browsing radio stations with one hand. He settles on bluesy jazz. Todd’s just glad it’s not Lux Dujour._ _

__“You know, I like Amanda. She’s tough--a lot tougher than you, actually. She said you were scrappy but that seems like an overestimation. She was right about one thing, though--you can definitely be a mouthy little prick.”_ _

__Todd’s vision is going a little fuzzy and he mutters, “that sounds like something she’d say,” without meaning to. Rook just laughs and merges lanes, accelerating._ _

__“You really hurt her, you know.”_ _

__Todd does know that._ _

__“She’s been trying to forgive you. But you’re just in the way now.”_ _

__“What?” he murmurs. He’s not sure if Rook hears him or if the man’s just feeling chatty, but he keeps talking either way._ _

__“We have plans to dismantle Blackwing, you know. As your sister put it, they’re a nuisance that’s been allowed to carry on for too long.”_ _

__“But--you’re--”_ _

__“I’m undercover.” Todd’s reasonably sure Rook would be winking if they’d been face-to-face. “It wasn’t hard to get recruited. But I bet you’re wondering--what does that have to do with you?”_ _

__Todd happens to be wondering exactly that._ _

__“It’s like I said, Todd. You’re just in the way. You’re a distraction.”_ _

__“A… To who?” It’s getting harder to string words together, but he’s not too worried because he’s pretty sure he doesn’t want to continue this conversation anyway._ _

__“To Dirk Gently.”_ _

__Todd’s chest tightens so violently he’s sure he’s having an attack._ _

__Rook sighs. “You’re holding him back. He needs to be out in the world, doing the universe’s bidding. Not playing house with you and Farah Black.”_ _

__Todd breathes out noisily. That didn’t make sense--that wasn’t--_ _

__“Amanda agreed that it would be best if you were taken out of the equation for a little while.”_ _

__“No, she wouldn’t. She wouldn’t--”_ _

__“You don’t think so?”_ _

__“She’s mysister,” he says muzzily. His mouth is dry. It’s hard to keep the words separated._ _

__“Yes. The sister you lied to, manipulated. You ruined your family, Todd. Did you really think it would be easy to come back from that?”_ _

__He sees his sister dressed all in gray, framed by her gang of unruly companions. She’d been smiling. She’d hugged him._ _

__Hadn’t she?_ _

__“We talked for a long time about what to do with you, Todd. See, she doesn’t want to see you again, but we couldn’t just let you carry on. So we agreed that I would keep you safe.”_ _

__Todd chokes out a laugh, but it sounds wretched and weak._ _

__“Alive anyway,” Rook corrects, amusement coloring his voice. Todd’s mind blanks out. He forgets what he’d been about to say, but the weight of it sits heavy on his chest. He listens to the pitter-patter of rain on the windshield._ _

__“She said I shouldn’t kill you, but why in the world would I want to do that?”_ _

__Todd’s vaguely surprised to find his eyes had drifted closed at some point, and he tries his best but he can’t seem to open them again. He remembers that one is swollen shut anyway and for some reason it strikes him as funny. A laugh bubbles in his throat but doesn’t quite make it out._ _

__“No, I’m going to keep you safe and sound, Todd.” There’s a soft voice but he can’t pinpoint where the sound is coming from. “I haven’t exactly had a pet before, but I promise you this--I’m going to take good care of you.”_ _

__Todd falls asleep to the scrape of the windshield wipers squeaking across the glass._ _

____

◈ ◈ ◈

Farah finds herself standing in front of a watermelon stand with an empty shopping cart. She'd browsed the grocery store in a daze, only now realizing that she has no idea what Dirk likes besides pizza and hamburgers and milkshakes. She's sure she's seen him eat other things but she's drawing a complete blank.

She's not going to call and ask. She needs the space. She'd allowed herself to break down in the parking lot after buying three prepaid phones, and the few tears she'd allowed herself in the safety of the car would have to hold her over. She's tired, and she's angry, and she's scared, but she's also got a job to do.

That job, at the moment, entails shopping for an eccentric British psychic detective who seemed to subsist entirely on sugar and junk food.

Farah walks away from the watermelons--how would they even open one? The cart squeaks and she absently drops a bundle of four too-green bananas into it, then small bag of apples for good measure. 

Realizing she's reached the end of the store, she takes a deep breath and turns around, maneuvering the cart awkwardly around the fruit section.

Frozen food was no good, and raw was even worse. She tries to think back to what she and Todd had gotten back when they were hunting for Dirk, but the memory of their time together brings on a stress headache and damp eyes and she firmly reminds herself that she's reached her breakdown allotment for the day.

She throws a loaf of sliced bread into the cart and then stands contemplatively in front of the wall of peanut butter jars. It's not a hard choice but she spends no less than five minutes picking out a brand.

Farah knows she's stalling. She knows Dirk needs some time to decompress, too, and she can only trust that he's not going to do anything stupid in her absence. 

Her mind wanders.

Grocery stores are strange places--no windows, lit in brilliant fluorescence, it's easy to lose track of time. Farah can't bring herself to check her watch. Lydia had once loudly declared the Target they'd been shopping in a liminal space and spent the subsequent two minutes defending the statement that Farah hadn't challenged, and the memory makes Farah smile until she remembers that that had happened only a few weeks before Patrick's death.

So much loss. 

Her father is dead, and Lydia isn't but she is _gone_ , for all intents and purposes. Patrick had been ripped from the both of them, and Todd--

Farah delicately places a purple jar of jam into the cart. She frowns down at her assortment of products and wonders why it looks like she's shopping for a kindergartener--apples and bananas and peanut-butter-and-jelly sandwiches. She concedes that it's probably a fair comparison given that she's shopping for Dirk.

She pays, loads the groceries into the back of the SUV, and then sits inside the car in silence, gripping the steering wheel with all of her strength until she can take a full breath.

"Okay, what next," she murmurs, staring out at the gathering night. She should go straight back to the hotel, but...

She digs into the bag on the passenger seat and pulls out one of the prepaid cell phones. She frowns down at it and considers the pros and cons very carefully before punching in her brother's phone number.

It's a personal line, a secondary phone that he'd assured her no one else knew, not now that their father was gone, but _still_ she knows there's no guarantee it's not bugged.

Eddie picks up on the sixth ring. Farah exhales a shuddering sigh and says hello.

◈ ◈ ◈

Dirk waits in the dark. He’d fallen asleep and woken up alone. Farah was supposed to have been back hours ago and he knows that he should go looking for her--she could be hurt, she could need help--but he’s paralyzed by the prospect of stepping out into the hallway. The hotel room is confined. It’s _safe_ and out there _isn’t_ and the power’s out and he doesn’t have anything to light his way--

He gasps in air, heart pounding. He has to go out. He has to find her. He can’t do this alone.

He wrings his hands together anxiously, too scared to peer out of the peephole, knowing that he’ll only find the same cloying darkness. Maybe if he ran--maybe he could make it down to the front desk, maybe the rude-ish man behind the desk would still be behind the desk--

“Okay,” he chirps shakily. “Okay.”

It’s not much of a pep-talk but it somehow does the trick. His quaking hand is scalded by the cold metal of the door handle and he only grips it long enough to pull the door open and slip out into the absolutely unbearable silence.

But it isn’t as dark as he thought it would be. He glances up to find a constellation of tiny lights, burning blue and white as if from thousands of miles away. _Stars_ , he thinks, awestruck, and wonders where the top of the building went. He takes a tentative step forward but cries out when a large hand lands heavy on his shoulder.

Dirk startles awake, his own name echoing in his ears, and he lies motionless until he can get his breathing under control.

It takes a while.

He stares bleakly up at the unfamiliar ceiling, slowly piecing together that it’s indeed the drabby inn he and Farah had found. With an effort, he angles his head toward Farah’s bed but she’s facing the window, her back to him, and he can’t tell if she’s asleep or not. He thinks it must be early still, sometime before midnight, but he doesn’t really want to know--knowing the time would only give him a reason to calculate just how long Todd’s been in Blackwing’s hands.

He suddenly wants to risk whispering Farah’s name, terrified of being alone with those thoughts, but he can’t bring himself to break the suffocating silence of the room.

Dirk rolls away to face the door. His eyes are hot and dry and he's afraid to go back to sleep, but before he realizes he’s drifted off he’s jerking awake again. A noise is trilling and he sits up, disoriented. For a moment he’s back in the Perryman Grand and he’s overslept and Patrick Spring is calling--

“Hello?” Farah grumbles into her phone. The chiming has stopped. Dirk shakily slides over to face her bed, letting his legs flop over the side and onto the worn carpet. He gropes around for the light and flips it on without asking, which earns a grouchy hiss from Farah.

“Sorry,” he whispers too loudly, on edge, but she ignores him in favor of pushing herself upright.

“Okay, okay, hang on. I’m putting you on speaker.” Farah glances up at Dirk, her eyes dull with exhaustion, then she taps at her phone screen. “Eddie, thanks for calling me back,” she says with obvious relief, earning only a distorted grunt of recognition in return. “What did you find?”

_“Well. I put my feelers out. Looks like Blackwing is involved--they’ve had all three of you under surveillance. But they did not move in on Todd Brotzman. It wasn’t them, Farah.”_

“What? What do you mean? Eddie, whoever took him referenced a CIA facility by name!”

_“I don’t know anything about that, but my contact says Blackwing’s got a bug up its ass about what happened. Word is that one of their rogue experiments took your friend.”_

Dirk immediately perks up.

"What? What do you mean? Are you saying that a Blackwing project took Todd?" he interrupts, throwing himself across the way to perch on the edge of Farah's bed. She shoots him a look that he chooses to classify as amused.

_"That's what the chatter suggests."_

"Then... that dead agent in our office lobby, that was--"

 _"The work of the same Blackwing subject,"_ Eddie verifies gruffly.

"But who? Which one? What's their name?" Dirk demands, leaning in close to Farah's phone.

_"I don't have that information."_

"Then you need to get it." Farah's voice is pure steel, and Dirk looks up at her with surprise and more than a hint of approval.

There's a long pause and then a begrudging agreement from Eddie, who then abruptly hangs up.

"Farah, this is--this is good. Very good."

"Is it?" she counters. "We don't even know who it is. Can we really assume anything about them?"

"Well, I should think so!" he twitters. "Nearly anyone is better than Blackwing. I may not have met all of the other projects, but the ones I have been introduced to are all decent people."

Farah raises an eyebrow. "Even the Rowdy Three?"

"Well--"

"And isn't it possible that you were only introduced to the subjects that weren't dangerous?"

Dirk opens his mouth, squints, and allows himself a moment of doubt. It was true that Riggins limited Dirk's contact with the others to only a handful, which did include a comatose old man and a whimsical shapeshifter, but in the end they were all just people, weren't they?

"Farah, none of us were there by choice. We were test subjects at best and prisoners at worst. Compared to the people who work there--who _choose_ to work for an organization like that--I should certainly be inclined to trust them more."

Farah tilts her head and seems to concede the point, but then asks, "even if they are harmless, what do they want with Todd?"

"That I can't answer," he confesses lightly. "But I'm sure we'll find it's nothing sinister."

"Then why did they lie about being his father?"

Dirk mulls it over, standing to pace the small area between the sink and window. "Maybe they thought _you_ were an undercover Blackwing agent? Oh! Maybe that's why they took Todd!" He gestures excitedly. "Maybe they knew Blackwing was targeting us and they wanted to keep him safe!"

"Dirk--don't jump to any conclusions, we don't have enough information. Besides, you weren't there. This man, whoever he was, he _knew_ things about Todd."

"What? What things?"

Farah hesitates. "He knew about Todd's pararibulitis--he knew that Todd had _lied_ about having it before. He talked about Amanda--"

"Really? Amanda?" Dirk asks, frowning. "How in the world would he have gotten that information?"

"Do you think Blackwing would, I don't know, have a file about that somehow?"

"I can't claim to know for sure, but it certainly is possible... Oh! Maybe he’s a mindreader!"

Farah chews on that thought for a bit and Dirk watches anxiously, suddenly very much needing her to be optimistic.

"If that is the case, then wouldn't he have known that I wasn't a Blackwing agent?"

"Well, I--oh." Dirk abruptly sits back down on the edge of his own bed. "Oh."

Farah leans forward to rest a hand on his knee for a moment. "I'm not saying it's not possible, and I'm definitely not saying that this is bad news. I just... I don't want us getting ahead of ourselves."

"Yes. Right. Very logical, Farah." He tries not to make it sound like an insult, and to his immense relief she offers him a tight smile.

"We just need to sit tight and wait to hear back from Eddie."

"Right. Good idea."

“I really wish Amanda would call me back,” Farah admits quietly, chewing at her lip. Dirk’s struck by a thought.

“Wait--our phones--you had us turn them off, we might not know if she calls, not if she doesn’t leave a voicemail--”

“I had Eddie pass along the number for my burner. He’s probably already left her a voicemail by now.

“Oh. Is that… safe?” he asks, trying hard not to think about his secret conversation with Cady.

Farah shrugs unhappily. “As safe as we can get. There are no easy answers right now, Dirk, only the best of a bunch of bad options.”

“That’s hardly encouraging.”

Farah huffs and lies back down, phone still cradled in her hand. “We should try to get some sleep, it’s already past one in the morning.”

Dirk doesn’t even bother considering it. He’s got too much to think about. He runs everything he can remember about his fellow test subjects through his mind, trying to parse a clue as to who would have the means and the motive to take Todd, but his knowledge of Blackwing’s other projects is woefully deficient. 

Eddie calls back shortly before three-thirty in the morning and sighs out one word before disconnecting, likely eager to return to his own bed. 

“Succubus,” Farah relays, her voice rough with sleep. “Does that mean anything to you?”

“No,” Dirk says after a moment of hard thinking. “No, I’m afraid it doesn’t…”

He watches anxiously as Farah pushes herself up into a sitting position, sagging against the cheap pillows. The phone screen lights up her face and for a moment he’s struck by how profoundly beautiful and exhausted she looks.

“Oh,” she says. Dirk mirrors the sudden frown on her face. 

“What? What--”

“Succubus. I thought the word was familiar but,” she pauses to shake her head slowly, as if to shake her weariness off. “I don’t know how Blackwing chooses the names of the people they track, but what I’m reading… this doesn’t make much sense.”

“What does it say?” he demands, impatient.

“Well… the folklore says it’s a demon. Some sort of life-sucking monster, but--” she scrolls down the page, her frown deepening. “It says that they’re female. The man at the hospital was definitely, well, a man.”

Dirk quickly dismisses that. “I wouldn’t put too much stock into Wikipedia, Farah. Or, well, Blackwing either, I suppose.” She looks up, confused, and he can only offer her a tight smile. “I don’t know the exact qualifications or conditions under which they select a project name, but the connection has been proven to be tenuous at best. Just focus on the basic characteristics.”

“Okay… well, like I said, this says that they steal the lifeforce of men--or, well, people--that they’re around.” Dirk thinks she’s holding something back because she looks vaguely embarrassed, and maybe more than a little uneasy, but he trusts her to deliver the relevant information.

His brain abruptly switches gears. “Wait, but, that sounds like--”

“The Rowdy Three. Project Incubus, right?” Farah asks, her eyes glued to her phone. “Succubus is the female version of an incubus, which is also some sort of life-stealing monster.”

“Well, I suppose that that’s pretty on the nose,” he retorts bitterly. “But if the subject is a man with the same abilities, why wouldn’t they just call him ‘Incubus’ as well? They already have four bloody men with the same power, why not round it out with a fifth?”

Farah’s screen goes dark but neither of them move to switch on the light. They sit in a contemplative silence.

“Maybe their powers aren’t the same,” Farah suggests, just as Dirk’s eyes are feeling dry and scratchy again. He forces himself to sit up straighter. “Maybe they’re similar, but just different enough that they wanted a different, um, classification.”

Dirk squints, trying to read her expression in the gloom. “I suppose that makes as much sense as anything else,” he concedes.

“Well. We can look into it more in the morning. I’m sorry, Dirk, I just--I need more sleep.”

Dirk nods, realizes she can’t see it, and then mutters, “okay,” before settling back down against his own uncomfortable pillows, listening as she shifts around, but then her breathing evens out and he’s effectively alone in the room. He tries to piece the clues all together in his mind but it’s like he’s trying to keep hold of something elusive and slippery and wriggling. 

Exhaustion sweeps in and he loses his grip.


	4. Baptism

“Thank you for taking the time to meet with me, Ms. Tran. Can I call you Erica?”

“Yeah, that’s fine.” The young woman is clearly uncomfortable in the wooden chair across from his desk, so Ken smiles his gentle smile and he nods, folding his hands over his stomach in a calculated effort to look relaxed.

“Do you know why I asked you to meet with me?”

Her eyes dart to the side. “I heard something went wrong with Operation Idun.”

“That’s right. Do you know what it is that went wrong?”

“No,” she retorts sourly, “but I can guess.”

“Please do.”

“That Bishop guy. He did something, didn’t he?”

Ken could laugh--what an understatement. “Yes, yes he certainly did. He abducted a secondary before we could get to them. But you knew something like that was going to happen, didn’t you?”

“Well, I don’t know, I mean--I didn’t know that _that_ in particular was going to happen.” Tran clears her throat and eyes the glass of water on Ken’s desk. He doesn’t offer her any.

“What did you think was going to happen, then?” 

“I don’t know, Supervisor Adams. He was just--creepy, okay?”

“Creepy? That seems to be putting it lightly. A couple of hours alone with him resulted in you putting in a transfer request and refusing to comply with our request to stick it out until your replacement arrived.”

Tran squirms under the weight of his gaze. “Sorry,” she offers lamely.

“No need to apologize, Erica. You were clearly onto something, weren’t you? You noticed something before anyone else did. I just want to know what it was. Maybe it can help us.”

The younger woman contemplates that for a long moment. “I can’t… really say exactly what it was. It was the way he talked about them--”

“Who?”

“The guys we were watching. Dirk Gently and Todd Brotzman.” Her eyelids flicker with understanding. “You said he took a secondary--Brotzman?”

“That’s right. Please, go on.”

“Okay,” Tran mutters, looking anxious. “Like I said, it was just creepy. He got this look in his eye, like he was really excited about something but pretending not to be.”

“That doesn’t seem like a good enough reason to risk your job. Something else must have happened.”

She shrugs, picking at a hangnail on her left hand. “It was a lot of little things, but the thing that made me decide to transfer, I guess that was when I was alone with him. He was different when Mr. Priest was around. It was like he was worried what Mr. Priest was going to think, but once it was just the two of us… He was really quiet at first, you know? Then I said something--I don’t remember what--about Gently and he just _went off_ on this weird rant.”

“What was the rant about?”

“He was spouting all this weird shit about how Gently was going to react once Blackwing brought Brotzman in. At first I thought he had a personal thing against Gently, but the more he talked, I don’t know. I really don’t, I just--”

“It’s okay, take your time.”

Tran exhales noisily and her eyes slide past him to gaze out the window, watching the dawn roll in beneath the dour cloudcover. “It was sort of like... someone talking about how jealous they were going to make their ex, if that makes any sense?”

Ken tilts his head and thinks it over. “Can you elaborate?”

“I don’t know. He seemed to be really looking forward to how upset Gently was going to be. I don’t think he cared at all about if it would make the guy comply with us or not--which is the _whole point_. It was more like he just wanted him to suffer. But it also didn’t seem personal, I guess because he didn’t seem angry or anything. Does that make sense?”

“It might, I’m not sure. What else did he say?”

“He asked me if I thought Gently was going to off himself. He said it like he didn’t care either way but he just really wanted to know the answer. Like he was just curious.” Tran shakes her head, almost absentmindedly. “I said something like, ‘why the hell would he?’ and then he just _looked_ at me.”

The young woman drops her head to stare down at her hands. Ken waits her out and is rewarded when she licks her lips and starts again. “I was raised in California, you know? When I was a teenager my boyfriend and I were camping way up in the woods. We went for a hike this one day and--have you ever seen a grizzly bear in person?”

Ken raises his eyebrows. He knows a point is coming, he even thinks he knows what it is, but it’s hard to be patient with the tangent. “No, I haven’t.”

“Well, they’re big. They’re scary motherfuckers--oh, I’m sorry, can I--can I say that?” She looks genuinely alarmed by the slip and Ken offers her a patronizing nod. She relaxes. “So, I spot this bear. And it’s not close but it’s not far away either, just this kind of in-between distance.”

“Okay.”

“I froze up. I know I’d been taught how to react, but in the moment it just flew right out of my head. The bear’s noticed us at this point and he’s just staring back. I couldn’t see his eyes that clearly or anything, he wasn’t that close, but there was this…” Tran angles her head, fighting to find the words. “This _stillness_. Like it was running the numbers through its head. Was it worth it to charge and try to kill us?”

Ken nods to show he’s following along. 

“That’s how Bishop looked at me, right then. Like he was that bear and he wasn’t coming after me because it just wasn’t worth the energy, or because he didn’t have the element of surprise.”

“I see. And that scared you.”

“I just wanted to get away.”

Ken frowns as he mulls it over, watching Tran crosses her arms across her stomach. She looks--what? Guilty? Afraid? Ken wonders if she’s heard about what happened to her replacement, if she knows just how close she’d come to suffering that fate in his place. He realizes that she wouldn’t be wrong to worry about Bishop coming after her at some point, but he doesn’t feel the need to tell her that. At least that would give them a chance to follow the guy’s trail.

“Okay.” He stands and extends his hand, and she scrambles to her feet to shake it. “Thank you for your time, Erica. I appreciate that you’ve been so candid. I’ll be in touch if I have any follow-up questions.”

She looks weak with relief and wastes no time in getting out of the office. Ken sits back down and tries to parse out any useful information.

He’s pretty sure he’s right about Bishop’s intentions. Taking Todd Brotzman for feeding purposes made the most sense of all of the theories that had been floated over the past few days, but he hadn’t factored Dirk Gently into the equation. Did Bishop know him? There was nothing in the files to indicate that they’d met. 

Maybe it was just a bonus--maybe the idea that he could inflict enough angst to drive another project to suicide made him feel powerful, in control. Maybe he just got off on the thought of it. 

Ken considers his next move, and after a moment of contemplation he picks up the phone.

◈ ◈ ◈

Todd watches the scenery go by. He’s given up on trying to reach out to Dirk using only sheer power of will, and he’s starting to feel like he’s losing his mind. Rook hasn’t said a word in hours, hadn’t even acknowledged him when he’d woken up in the back of the same van gasping from some terrible, half-forgotten dream. Todd had spent some time trying to engage his abductor, trying to provoke some useful piece of information out of him, but Rook’s in a strange mood that Todd can’t read. He seems almost excited, almost angry.

It makes Todd nervous, but he resigns himself to the fact that there’s nothing he can do besides sit and wait. He’s been tracking the progress of the sun and he’s just reached the conclusion that they’re heading east, and he jumps when Rook suddenly breaks the silence with, “are you hungry?”

Todd defaults to sarcasm. “Planning on treating me to another steak dinner?”

There’s a heavy pause, and then Rook sounds amused. “What do you mean?”

“What do you mean, ‘what do you mean’? The--the mall, that restaurant.”

“What?” the man asks with a brief laugh, and Todd meets his eyes in the rearview mirror with confusion. “What mall?”

“Yesterday. We stopped--”

“We didn’t stop anywhere yesterday, Todd. Certainly not at a shopping mall.” 

“Yes, we did,” he insists, and he’s groggy but he’s angry now, too.

“Todd,” Rook’s mock patient, like a parent consoling a fussy toddler. “Why in the world would I take you shopping?”

“My shirt,” Todd says slowly, losing momentum. He looks down and pulls at the fabric. “I threw up. I needed a new one.”

Rook doesn’t say anything for a moment but his gaze flickers repeatedly between the road and the rearview mirror. “It’s true that you threw up, but I didn’t buy you a shirt. That’s one of mine.”

“What?”

“The shirt you’re wearing. It’s mine. I have a bag of spare clothing in the trunk. Haven’t you noticed that the one you’re wearing is about five sizes too big?”

“That’s… okay, five sizes? That’s an exaggeration, and--” He looks down at the shirt again, frowning at it upsidedown. It _is_ pretty big on him, but hadn’t he just grabbed something from a rack? He’d been so out of it. He hadn’t been looking at sizes. 

Rook lilts another laugh in the front. “It’s cute that you think I’d trust you in public.”

“You’re just trying to confuse me.”

“What would I get out of that?”

Todd doesn’t have a good answer. His certainty that the impromptu shopping trip had happened evaporates and he regards the shirt with suspicion. Was it even the same one as the shirt he thought he’d picked out in the department store? The fact that he doesn’t know for sure frightens him in a distant sort of way, and he thinks he should probably be more concerned but he’s got a long list of things to be worried about, and in the end it didn’t really matter if it was a vivid dream or Rook’s just messing with him.

He thinks about the conversation about Amanda. He wants to ask if that had happened, but instead goes with something that’s been wiggling around in his brain since he woke up to the sun in his face. 

“Your real name, it’s Priest, isn’t it?”

Todd watches the mirror and sees Rook’s face undergo a series of interesting changes--surprise is chased by amusement, then there’s something like uncertainty, but in the end his expression settles on polite curiosity. 

“Why do you think that?”

“Dirk told me about you--sort of, I mean--you were there, at that house.”

“What house?”

“The one in Bergsberg.”

“I’ve never been to Montana.”

“How do you know it’s in Montana?” Todd challenges.

Rook finds his eyes in the rearview mirror again. “I read the report.”

“Because you’re Blackwing.”

“That’s right.”

“You were there that day,” Todd repeats. “Your voice, it sounded different but you could have just been--”

“Do I look like Mr. Priest to you?”

Todd sucks in a breath, reluctant to admit the truth. “I never actually saw--”

“Ah, well, I guess that explains it. You would know if I was Mr. Priest--his appearance precedes him, at least nowadays. What did your psychic friend tell you about him?”

Todd hesitates, suddenly a lot less sure of his theory. “He didn’t say much--it was more--he was scared.”

“He was right to be scared,” Rook shares, “Mr. Priest is a dangerous man. I worked with him for a bit and let me tell you, Todd, I may not be treating you to steak dinners, but I am certainly much better company.”

Todd swallows hard and thinks it over with what little mental capacity he’s got. Priest works for Blackwing, he hunts people, Dirk is terrified of the man and had been certain that he had killed Farah--even though he hadn’t. Todd had thought, maybe, that this whole thing was somehow a ruse--maybe Priest was using him as bait to get at Dirk. But from what little he knows of this Priest guy, he isn’t so sure that all of this would be necessary. Priest would probably just grab Dirk off the street. 

So maybe Priest and Rook weren’t the same person, but he knows that doesn’t mean he’s any better off.

He’s still thinking it over when Rook gets off the freeway, and he snaps to attention too late to catch the name of the exit. Rook takes a dizzying series of turns and finds a maze of backroads that lead them deeper and deeper into the countryside. Todd’s helplessly lost by the time they turn down a dirt driveway, and he frantically realizes that the road trip is over. Whatever’s waiting at the little battered white house at the end of the lane--it isn’t going to be good. He cranes his head, looking for other houses, and he can see them scattered in the distance. Not close enough to hear screaming, but if he could just get away, he might be able to reach one in time.

But that’s a cold comfort. 

He knows better than to expect a chance to run.

◈ ◈ ◈

“Come on, come _on_ , you stupid universe.”

Dirk stands in the lobby of the Paradise Inn and tries to reach across time and space. He strains with everything that he has, turning in small circles as if he’ll be inclined to take a step north, east, whatever, and find himself that single step closer to his friend.

It doesn’t work, but it does draw the ire of the guy who’s replaced the original man behind the desk. “You okay, man?” 

Dirk ignores him, checks the clock on his phone, and slinks outside to wait for Farah under the awning, watching the downpour wax and wane. He turns in another circle, but he winds up spinning impatiently and only succeeds in making himself dizzy. He knows that the deskboy-man-person is watching him through the glass but he tells himself it doesn’t matter--this is _hardly_ the weirdest thing he’s done in public. 

After twenty minutes he’s considering going back to their room to sulk, but just as he takes a step toward the doors their stolen SUV swerves into the parking lot. He perks up and waves excitedly but Farah doesn’t get out. Dirk squints. He makes out the distinct, lovely poof of Farah’s hair so he’s sure it’s her but--

“Oh! Okay.” He gets it. Or at least he thinks he does. He trots over to the car and scrambles into the passenger seat, shooting his friend an unhappy look. “Farah, why in the world didn’t you pull up closer--my _hair_ , Farah. And, hey, where’s the breakfast you were going to get?”

“Dirk.”

It’s that voice. The Bad News Voice.

“Amanda called back.”

“Oh,” Dirk says, relieved. “I thought--Farah, that’s good news!”

“It… is.” 

He narrows his eyes, taking in the tense line of Farah’s shoulders and the grim set of her mouth. “Is it?”

She takes a deep breath in through her nose and gives this little twitch. Dirk’s left to puzzle out if it’s a shrug or a spasm. 

“What did she say?”

“Well, she was--well, freaking out. She didn’t say why but she didn’t have access to her phone, and when she got access again she got my voicemails and--I told you, I left some that were more specific, right?”

“Yes?” Dirk’s having trouble keeping up. 

“Yes. Right. So I told her that something was, well, wrong with Todd. Well, two things. I told her he was in the hospital, then I called last night and I told her that we were--that we’re looking for him.” Farah closes her eyes and gives a sharp shake of her head. “I knew I shouldn’t have--I should have just left it at ‘call me’, but I thought maybe she wouldn’t think that that was urgent enough so--”

“Right, got that--”

“So she calls me and I’m in line at this diner and I step outside, because I knew that wasn’t a conversation I wanted to have in front of fifteen strangers.” Dirk tries not to hurry her along, but Farah’s getting that glassy-eyed introspective look that she gets when she’s getting off track. 

“Where is she? What has she been doing all this time?”

“I don’t know. She said something about a wand but it didn’t make any sense--”

“A what--? Okay, alright, whatever. But what did she say about _Todd_?”

“She--she didn’t say anything, she just asked questions.”

“So she hasn’t had any visions?” Dirk demands, resisting the urge to reach over and shake Farah until she has good news for him. 

“No, she had no idea. Well, she asked if it was Blackwing and I explained that we thought that it was that and that they’re _definitely_ involved because a dead agent wound up in our office and there was that CIA operational name that was used at the hospital--”

“Bluebird?”

“Right. But I told her what Eddie told us. About it being a subject, not an agent, and she said what you said.”

“What did I say?”

“That it was a good thing. That it was better than it being Blackwing itself.”

“Ah--”

“She told me that they’ve been tracking them down--”

“Blackwing?”

“No, other people like you. Psychics, or something. She said that they’re locating previous subjects, and some that Blackwing never identified.”

“Why?” Dirk asks, bewildered. 

“Something about the universe being broken and having to gather… tools? ‘The tools’? Something like that. I asked what it had to do with Todd and she said that maybe one of the people she’d met was involved, somehow.”

“What? Why? Why would they abduct him from a hospital?” Dirk rubs anxiously at his neck, trying to understand the logical connection Amanda’s clearly made.

“I don’t know. She wasn’t sure either. Maybe they’re trying to protect Todd. Maybe they knew Blackwing was watching us.”

“But… why just grab Todd? Your brother said that all three of us were under surveillance, so why only--”

“I don’t know, Dirk!” Dirk recoils back in the seat and Farah takes a breath. “I’m sorry--I just don’t have all of the answers, okay?”

“But you spoke to her--”

“Only for a few minutes. She said that she needed to call me back. So I raced back here to get you.”

Dirk swallows thickly. “Okay,” he says, wrestling with a sickening gurgle of anxiety. Somehow Amanda’s assessment of the situation made him question his own enthusiasm over the news that Todd’s abductor was Blackwing subject. 

They sit in silence for nearly an hour. Dirk tries in vain to avoid looking at the clock on the dash every three-point-one seconds and instead attempts to focus on the metronome pattern of rain on the windshield, but it’s a lost cause. 

It’s chilly but neither of them reach out to adjust the heat, and they both jump when Farah’s sensible default ringtone blares out. Dirk scoots as close as he can to her as she swipes her screen and taps the speaker icon.

“Hello?” 

_“Farah, hi, sorry about that--”_

“It’s okay--”

_“Are you with Dirk?”_

“Yes--”

“Hello, Amanda,” he interrupts. There’s a soft exhale through the speaker.

_“Good. Hi, Dirk.”_

“Are you safe?” Farah asks, shooting him a look that he can’t quite parse. 

_“Yeah, I’m good. Sorry about that. I just--we were with someone and I--”_

“Another Blackwing subject?” Dirk asks with absurd certainty.

_“Well, yeah. Sort of.”_

“Okay,” Farah says evenly, “Amanda, I’m glad you’re safe. But we’re in the dark here. What can you tell us?”

There’s a static-y sigh. _“Okay, so I can’t say for sure, but like I said before, I think it may be connected to our thing.”_

“The--the psychic hunting thing?” Dirk says, stumbling over the phrasing.

_“Er, yeah, I guess you can put it like that. But, yeah--basically. Me and the guys drive around at random and we just keep running into other people. Most of them don’t want anything to do with us, they’ve got families and lives and shit, but a couple were glad we found them--we’ve kinda been collecting phone numbers, just in case.”_

“In case of what?” Farah asks, her brow furrowed.

_“In case we need them.”_

The words ring ominously in the confines of the car and the shiver that runs down Dirk’s spine has nothing to do with the cold. 

“Todd,” he barks out, “what about Todd?”

There’s a pause. _“I don’t--I didn’t know anything about him or what had happened, not until I got my phone fixed. There was this whole thing with a telekinetic that I don’t want to get into, but it was busted and--”_

“Alright,” Farah says. “Why do you think that one of these people would take your brother?”

_“Okay, so, like I said, I don’t know anything for sure. But there was this one guy. We were in Kentucky tracking down what we thought was another shapeshifter and this guy finds **us** , which was a first. And get this: he was like the guys.”_

Dirk blinks. “The guys? You mean the Rowdy Three?”

_“Yeah, as soon as he rolled up they said that he was like them, which means he does the energy suck thing.”_

Dirk exchanges a frown with Farah. He senses the same thought in her mind: Succubus. “Okay… but why would this man--”

 _“Just shut up for a second, Dirk, okay? Just listen.”_ Dirk complies but he isn’t happy about it. _“This guy stayed with us for a few days. He said he was on the run from Blackwing and that he’d felt the guys--kind of a kindred spirit thing. He was cool. He partied with the guys and me and Beast and we got a little wasted.”_

Amanda hesitates. _“Yeah. I got really wasted. I don’t remember how the conversation started, but he started asking me all kinds of questions about my pararibulitis attacks.”_

“Wait,” Farah says, holding out her hand as if Amanda could see the gesture. “Did he already know about your pararibulitis, or did you mention it?”

_“I’m not sure, dude, like I said, I was pretty out of it. I didn’t have an attack in front of him, though. And I don’t think the guys would have brought it up out of nowhere.”_

“Okay.” Farah sounds distinctly unsatisfied with that answer and Dirk’s got more than one thing to say about it, but he obediently keeps his mouth shut. “Go on, Amanda.”

_“So, this guy is completely, like, captivated by it. I get that it’s a rare disease but I’ve never met anyone who had so many **questions** about it.”_

“What kind of questions?”

_“What triggers them, what they’re like, what makes them better, what it feels like for me when the guys do their thing, what it’s like for them. Then he started asking about like my entire family history with it. I told him about my aunt, and--”_

“Todd,” Dirk says with realization, his stomach squeezing tight. “You told him about Todd.”

Amanda’s quiet so long that Farah lights up the screen to double-check that they haven’t been disconnected. _“Yeah. I told him about Todd.”_

“Amanda--what exactly did you say?”

 _“I don’t know--I told you, I wasn’t exactly sober.”_ She sounds defensive and Dirk’s surprised to find that he can be even more on-edge. _“But--I think I complained. A lot. I remember being angry, all the bad shit from before--what Todd did, the way he told me about it, all of the lying. It just all came up again and it... felt good to vent about it.”_

“Okay,” Farah says diplomatically. “So, you were approached by a stranger with the same abilities as the Rowdy Three, and he knew about your pararibulitis--”

_“Maybe! I told you, I don’t know that for sure.”_

Dirk cuts in abruptly, burning cold with anger. “And you told him that Todd lied about having it, too. Did you tell him that he _actually_ has it now?”

Farah doesn’t look surprised and Dirk bitterly wonders if she’d already suspected it, if she’d come to the conclusion before Amanda had even called. 

_“Yeah,”_ Amanda answers, sounding near stricken now. It’s what Dirk had been expecting, but he has to close his eyes for a moment all the same. 

“Did you tell him what the Rowdy Three do, when you have an attack? About the--the feeding thing?”

_“Yes, but--”_

“How did he react to that?” Farah asks.

_“I don’t know! He didn’t seem surprised, though. He didn’t really seem... anything.”_

“Alright. What happened next?”

_“Like I said, he stayed with us for a few days and then he was gone. He went to go get some pot but he didn’t come back. But then--a few hours later Blackwing showed up. I thought that maybe they’d snatched him up first, or maybe it could have been a coincidence.”_

“But you don’t think that now,” Farah states, not needing to phrase it like a question.

_“No, I think maybe--Are we all on the same page here? He went after Todd, didn’t he?”_

“That is what it seems like. You think he called Blackwing in?”

_“I don’t know how, or why--”_

“Why?” Dirk spits out in disbelief. “Why? It’s because he got what he wanted out of you, Amanda!”

“Dirk--”

 _“It’s okay, Farah,”_ Amanda says quickly, but the hurt is evident in her voice. _“Dirk, look, I had no way of knowing--”_

“How could you not? How could you _not know_ , Amanda? You couldn’t have possibly thought that that was a coincidence! You--you should known and you should have warned us.” Dirk wants to pace, wants to get out the car and just get away, but he’s rooted to the seat. Farah lays a hand on his arm and he pulls away as if burned. 

“Dirk, calm down.”

“You’re not stupid, Amanda. You’re smarter than that. Did you not know? Or did you just not _care_?”

“Dirk! That’s enough,” Farah snaps. Amanda says nothing in her own defense but somehow that doesn’t make him feel better. “You can’t blame her--she had no way of knowing. How could she?”

“How could she not?” Dirk murmurs, suddenly shaky. “How could I not?”

He vaguely registers the stretch of silence that follows, but he’s lost to the violent shift of his own thoughts. “We should have known.”

There’s a crackle of static through the phone, a loud curse, and what sounds like a chorus of barking. Dirk stares down at the device in Farah’s hand, then exchanges an uncertain look with Farah.

“Amanda? Are you--?” Farah starts, but Amanda cuts her off with a loud exclamation of _‘shit’_ and the line disconnects. “Amanda? Amanda!”

Farah taps furiously at the phone, redialing once, twice, three times before giving up. She raises her eyes with obvious hesitance and Dirk can’t bring himself to hold her gaze. 

“Dirk--”

“Don’t,” he begs quietly, wrapping his arms around himself. 

They sit and listen to the rain, and after a few minutes Farah slowly reaches out to turn on the heater. The rush of warm air isn’t a relief, it only makes him wonder where Todd is, if he’s in pain, if he’s cold.

Farah’s phone chimes and she scrambles to unlock the screen. She reads the message and heaves a sigh of relief. “She’s okay. She’s going to call back later tonight.”

Dirk doesn’t ask why she can’t call back immediately, if she’s able to text them. In that moment he can’t bring himself to care. More to the point, he just can’t wrap his head around any of it. He can’t draw in a deep enough breath, can’t _think_ \--

He closes his eyes and clenches his hands tight against his thighs, so he misses it when someone carefully approaches the passenger side of the car. 

“Hey, Dirk!” 

A fist pounds at the window and he startles badly, clutching at his chest and nearly leaping over the console into Farah’s lap with fright.

“Oh my god,” Farah breathes out shakily, and Dirk turns back to the window just in time to see Tina press her smiling face up close to the glass.

◈ ◈ ◈

The van’s door slides open and Todd tells himself not to struggle, but the moment he’s pulled from the car an animal instinct bleeds through every rational thought. He throws himself past Rook and gets about four strides down the driveway before a blow to the back of the head has him face-first on the ground. He rolls onto his side, cradling his aching skull in his hands, and spares a moment to wonder about repeated head injuries.

Maybe he can blame brain damage for why he’d even bothered to try to run. 

Gravity shifts as he’s brought roughly back to his feet, and it takes an effort not to throw up on his shoes. He’s dragged across the broken concrete and through a chipped red door, through which Rook heaves him forward. He drops to the ground, where he lays still and pants. 

The air is stagnant, like the rain’s molded straight through to the foundation of the house, and Todd can feel a layer of dirt between him and the hardwood floor.

 _’Okay,’_ he thinks, _’old house.’_ But that’s about as far as his analysis gets.

There’s a dull screech, like metal scraping, and he reluctantly lifts his throbbing head as Rook turns a key in the front door and secures two separate deadbolts. Todd’s stomach sinks impossibly lower and he glances around, trying to bring the room into focus, but before he can even attempt to map out an escape route he’s being hauled down a rotting wooden staircase and through another door.

He knows he’s in a basement, he’s undeniably underground; he tries to mentally catalogue it: stairs, small room, a room past that, and--he glances nervously to the little door to the left--some kind of bathroom. The entire basement’s been converted, likely intended to be an in-law suite of sorts, but it’s not new. In fact, it looks like the rooms haven’t been touched in years.

He regards the dirty, bare mattress on the floor with disgust and more than a little anxiety.

“Well. Welcome home, Todd.”

He squints up at his captor and Rook returns his gaze with a speculative frown. He tilts his head, examining, and then pulls Todd toward the bathroom. Todd stumbles, nauseous with the sudden movement, and barks out a protest of pain when he’s pushed into the little ceramic bathtub.

The light flickers on. 

The fluorescence hurts his eyes so he squeezes them shut. He hears the rustle of a bag, and then the crinkling of plastic. 

The sink runs and then shuts off. There's a dull _pop_. Todd breathes in harshly through his nose when something cold and slimy touches his face. He jerks back and croaks out in fear when his head slams against the tiles behind him.

His eyes flutter open and he gets a glimpse of Rook smiling patiently at him, his hands lathered with white foam. His eyes shut again of their own volition--the pain, the light, it’s all too much. 

Rook slowly lathers the rest of his face and neck with shaving foam. His hands are gentle, which only twists Todd's stomach into a tighter knot.

“Let’s just clean you up a bit, Todd.”

His tongue is swollen and sore; he wants to curse at Rook but the words stick.

"You're rare gifts, you know. You and your sister. I had no idea something like pararibulitis even _existed_ , not until I got a good look at Blackwing’s files. Do you have any idea how uncommon your illness is?"

Todd groans and wishes he had the strength to tell him to shut up. 

"All this time, I've been wasting my efforts on finding and securing my next meal. It isn't easy, you know. Finding the right person--someone capable of just the right kind of sustained terror--seducing them away from their loved ones... it takes time."

Todd tries to writhe away when Rook pulls out the razor. Rook secures his head with one firm hand and begins delicately shaving his face with the other.

"I mean, sure, I could do it fast and sloppy, just grab someone off the street, but that kind of fear doesn't taste like much of anything. Panic--it's ashy. Cultivated fear, true angst, it's like a fine wine or a well-aged steak. It takes time."

Todd’s head is mush, a sticky nest of medication and pain, and it’s hard to piece two thoughts together but he abruptly realizes what Rook’s talking about, what Rook _is_. And with that comes the horror of knowing what the man wants.

With terrible clarity he also knows that Dirk isn’t coming. 

“But I don’t have to worry about that ever again, do I? We have each other now, Todd, and I won’t have to resort to games anymore. Well,” he laughs, “at least not _those_ types of games.”

Rook's blade moves smoothly over his throat and Todd holds his breath, fearful of being cut, but then for one single, irrational moment some dark part of him wonders if maybe that wouldn’t be better. Because he knows what’s going to come--Rook’s going to hurt him. It might be in ten minutes, might be in a week, but it would come and then the man would gorge himself on the pain. And he would never let Todd go. 

He wonders if it would be easier, in the end, if the razor just slipped.

But Rook's hand is steady as a surgeon's, and in no time at all he's rubbing a soft wet towel over Todd's cheeks and throat, wiping away the shaving foam as tenderly as any lover. 

Todd sucks in a panicky breath when the man pushes down on his chest, forcing him almost flat on his back in the tub, and he flinches hard when cold water sprays over his head. He sits up, gasping, and he tries to scramble out but Rook’s there with a cloth and a good grip, and he has to endure a rough and inefficient towel-down.

Todd's eyes sting with anger as he's roughly dragged out of the bathtub and back into the main room. He lands heavily where Rook lets him fall, and he tries hard not to look too closely at the stains on the mattress. 

“There, that’s better, isn’t it?”

Todd blinks the water out of his eyes and can’t think of a single thing to say, even a simple ‘fuck you’ fails to spring out of his mouth. But Rook doesn’t seem to be expecting a response; after a moment of thoughtful staring, he nods briskly to himself and leaves without another word.

The door slams and lock clicks.

Todd shuts his eyes and listens as Rook climbs back up the stairs.


	5. The Consummation

Sherlock Hobbs has always been an empathetic man. His father affectionately calls him ‘sensitive’, and his mother had always told him it would come in handy. But at the moment, staring down at the desolate sadness painted across Dirk Gently’s face, he wishes he had a little less of it. 

Sherlock and Tina had gotten the run-down from Farah on the way to the diner. He knows what happened, but he hadn’t accounted for the intensity of Dirk’s despair and it makes him ache inside, like some kind of emotional food-sickness. So he does what he does best--he sits down next to Dirk and offers him comfort in the form of a gentle hand on the shoulder, soft words of casual conversation, and understanding eyes.

But Dirk doesn’t seem to absorb much of it. He stares at the glossy menu like it’s written in another language. 

“Hey,” Sherlock murmurs once Tina and Farah have fallen into their own quiet conversation. “Now, I know better than to ask ‘are you okay’, okay? But you let me know if I can help, Dirk.”

Dirk turns and looks at him, uncomprehending at first, then his eyes fill to the brim with tears. “Thank you,” the younger man whispers, and Sherlock can only pat him on the shoulder.

“Things are pretty rough, aren’t they? I know it seems all bad, but if there’s anyone who can figure it out, it’s the two of you.”

At that, Dirk turns to stare at Farah with regret.

“Something happen between you two?” he asks quietly, trying not to draw the girls’ attention.

“I’ve been a prat.”

“A what now?”

Dirk aims a watery smile at him. “An asshole.”

“Ah.” Sherlock smiles, hoping it’s a joke, but Dirk’s expression is rueful at best.

“She’s been, well, her usual efficient self. But I can’t seem to keep it together. Maybe I’ve been a bit resentful about that.”

“Well, the circumstances are less than ideal, now aren’t they? I’m sure she understands.”

Dirk frowns down at his menu again. “Yes,” he says at last. “Yes, I’m sure she does.”

A sleepy-faced waiter arrives and Sherlock winds up suggesting a classic cheeseburger when Dirk can’t muster the willpower to make a choice, and the table sits in silence even after the man leaves with their orders. Tina’s the first to clear her throat.

“So, what’s the game plan here?”

Sherlock takes a deep breath and hopes that there even _is_ a plan. He watches as Farah’s eyes slide over to Dirk, who doesn’t speak up.

“Well, as you know, we’ve been heading east.”

“Based on one of Dirk’s psychic hunches?” Sherlock asks. He tries not to break into a nervous sweat when the gentleman at another table glances over.

“Something like that.” Farah still hasn’t relented her stare, but Dirk still hasn’t looked up. “We stopped to rest at a hotel here--”

“The Paradise Inn,” Tina provides helpfully. Sherlock side-eyes the stranger at the next table, worried how much he could overhear, but the man has gone back to browsing something on his phone.

“Yes. But once we stopped, Dirk wasn’t able to pick up the, well, trail, I guess.”

Sherlock glances at said detective, who has taken to poking slowly at the beads of perspiration on his water glass. 

“So, that means, what? You don’t know what to do now?” Tina asks. Dirk shrugs.

“How does it work?” Sherlock asks under his breath, hunching over like he can shield their conversation with his body. “Do you get a vision or some kind of dreamy thing--?”

“No, nothing like that.” Dirk reluctantly lifts his head. “It’s more… it’s more like, I think ‘where should I go next?’ and I go with the first thing that pops into my head. Or the thing that feels least wrong.”

“Wow,” Sherlock says with quiet awe. “That is still pretty dang cool.”

Dirk lowers his eyes and Sherlock abruptly realizes how ill-timed his enthusiasm is. “Sorry,” he offers, which earns him a small nod.

“So… no more hunches, huh?” Tina clarifies.

“No more hunches,” Dirk replies.

“But if we assume that whoever took Todd is still heading East,” Farah starts, but Tina interrupts, hands gesturing dramatically.

“Oh _shit!_ Hobbs, do you think we passed them? Like, if we were heading west and they were heading east--”

“Tina--”

“Sorry. Not helpful. Right.” She looks a bit bashful, but Sherlock knows the question is going to come up again in some form or another, at some point. 

“What can we do?” Sherlock asks their Seattle companions. “How can we help?”

Farah shifts uncomfortably. “I’m not sure how much help it could be, but if you could keep your ears open, use your credentials to try to track any unusual activity, that might… lead to something.”

“Okay,” he agrees, feigning enthusiasm. He’s already been doing exactly that and has come up with exactly nothing. He just knows better than to say that in front of Dirk. 

Dirk clears his throat and makes a weak attempt at cheer. “We should keep heading east, I think. Southeast.”

“Alright, cool, sounds good,” Tina says, practically bouncing in the booth. She pulls her cell phone out and starts feverishly tapping away. “I’ll look up some hotels and motels and restaurants and stuff. Any, like, particular town, or…?”

Dirk shakes his head, eyelashes fluttering in an attempt to hide his distress. Sherlock thinks he’s probably got the worst pokerface he’s ever seen, and that’s saying something, because his brother--

“Okay so, uh, looks like we should take the interstate ninety east, past Idaho, and then I guess we’ll hit Missoula,” Tina relays, biting at her fingernails. “Does that sound okay?”

Sherlock turns back to Dirk, who looks a little lost. 

“Yes. Sure. Why not,” Dirk offers, just a hair shy of hysterical, and Sherlock’s hand finds its way back to the man’s shoulder. Dirk deflates under the weight and slouches down again.

“Missoula? Isn’t that a pretty big city?” Farah asks, looking uneasy for reasons Sherlock can’t pin down. 

“Third biggest in Montana!” Tina recites with pride. 

“Still, not even a tenth the size of Seattle, if I remember correctly,” Sherlock says. 

Dirk perks up a bit at that, though Sherlock couldn’t guess why. “It’s a good start. I think. As good as any, anyway. Shall we leave tonight?”

Sherlock locks eyes with Farah, and then glances past Dirk out the window; the day’s already creeping into the afternoon and he’s exhausted from the drive west, but he’s not one to complain and he’s certainly not going to refuse. 

They would do whatever it took--a little more driving wouldn’t hurt.

“Dirk, we should wait until morning,” Farah suggests gently, but there’s a bite somewhere underneath. “Hobbs and Tina need to rest, and we need to plan this a little better. We need to figure out where we’re going, what to do if we get separated--and that could easily happen, because we’re better off taking both cars.”

To Sherlock’s surprise, Dirk nods. “Yes, sensible, that makes sense. First thing in the morning, then?”

“First thing,” Sherlock promises warmly. He’s desperately grateful when their food arrives and Dirk tucks into it with an appetite.

◈ ◈ ◈

Coherency comes back to Todd in bits and pieces, picking up momentum about an hour after Rook’s departure. He sits, paces, stands and stares at the door and tries to fit the memories together, but it’s all a sick blur. He’s reasonably sure he’s got the basics--he’s been abducted by a compulsive liar who may or may not be a CIA agent or a CIA experimental test subject, or, possibly, somehow both. 

Anything beyond that is a terrifyingly ethereal unknown. There may have been a trip to a shopping mall, but that seems unlikely; there was definitely a hospital at some point, but he’s not sure if that was before or after he was initially taken by a madman; and there was a _lot_ of driving, most likely east, which means Idaho or Montana or-- 

How many days has he been gone?

Todd scratches at the back of his neck until it hurts, and he uses the pain to ground himself. He’s coming down off of whatever the hell it was that Rook gave him--if anything, if his memories of that are to be trusted. There was something about a hamburger. Maybe. 

Todd sets the carousel of half-remembered images aside and focuses on the present. He sways a bit and turns in a small circle. 

“Light,” he murmurs, wincing at the roughness in his throat. It feels like he’s been gargling gravel, but it’s not exactly unlike the aftermath of a few particularly bad nights out in his band days. “It’s light but…” he looks up, frowning. “No lights.”

He turns his attention to the small, bright rectangle along the far wall, up so high it’s nearly touching the ceiling. Todd abruptly remembers that he’s underground and realizes that he's looking at a window. He lunges toward it but he's about two feet too short, even on his tippy-toes, so he turns and examines the rest of the room for something to stand on. There's the mattress, but that would give him maybe an extra eight inches at most. Unless he were to prop it up and climb it… He tucks the idea away for later, once he’s got his strength back. His eyes skip around the bare room; he knows there's a bathroom through the small door across the room, and inside that there's toilet and a bathtub--

Todd clutches the side of his head and tries to convince himself that memory of being _shaved and bathed_ wasn't a real one--it was a nightmare, some phantom embarrassment pulled up from the depths of his damaged psyche. But he tentatively rubs a hand over his jaw and the effort falls apart because his cheeks feel smooth.

"Fuck."

Next he tries to tell himself that that isn't the most humiliating thing he's endured, but his brain is still a hive of dizzy thoughts and he can't exactly get a list of his greatest hits going.

"Fuck," he says again, louder, just because he can. He feels a quiver start in his fingers as the reality of the situation sinks in, but he stubbornly pushes panic away, trying to focus on the window-reaching-problem. It’s way too small to fit through, even for him, but if he can just see out of it, or get it open and yell for help--

But there's nothing, not besides the filthy mattress. The toilet and tub are predictably immobile and Rook's left nothing else but dirt behind.

Todd slides down the wall and puts his face in his hands in despair.

◈ ◈ ◈

Farah receives a call from Amanda on the drive back to the hotel. Hobbs offers to pull over but Farah dismisses that with a wave and puts the phone on speaker. Dirk trembles with anticipation, hoping she’s found something, seen something in a vision, but he’s quickly disappointed.

Amanda explains that she doesn’t have new information, but she’s been running through it and she thinks she’s got a plan. Dirk leans into Farah’s space in the backseat as Amanda speaks, and he’s relieved when Farah doesn’t pull away in annoyance. Tina twists around to watch from the passenger seat.

_"I've been thinking about--I keep replaying it in my head. What did I say? What did he ask about Todd?"_

"And?"

_"Just fragments, bits and pieces from that night. But before he left, he asked me things about me. Like, he'd asked a lot about pararibulitis before, but suddenly he was asking about other stuff, too."_

"Like what?"

There's a considerable pause, like she's gathering her courage. When she begins speaking, it's a long exhale, a cloud of words that Dirk needs a minute to decipher. _"He asked me about drinking, and my history with drugs. Not my meds, but like, pot and harder stuff. How it affected me."_

Farah looks stricken, and Dirk sees his own puzzlement mirrored on Tina's face.

"Uh, okay," she says, looking between Farah and the phone. "Nope, I don't get it. What does that mean?"

"It means--"

_"It means he wanted to know what made my attacks worse."_

Dirk abruptly understands. His mouth goes dry and his head fills with white static. "He's... is that what he's doing with Todd?"

His own voice sounds tinny and far away.

_"I don't know, man. But I think--"_

"What exactly did you tell him?" Farah interjects, trading an ominous frown with Hobbs through the rearview mirror.

_"The truth. Pot helped, sometimes, but drinking made it really, really bad. I basically stopped drinking after my diagnosis, or, well, after I found that out the hard way. And... I told him I tried cocaine, just once. It was--I can't even describe it, Farah. The attacks are always bad but that shit just took it to another level."_

There's a noise over the line, and Dirk's not sure if it's a sob or a laugh. 

_"It was one of the top three worst ones I've ever had. Maybe second to my first ever attack, when I didn't understand what the hell was happening. But this--I don't know why I was so stupid. I was angry, and messed up. I got some coke from an ex-boyfriend and I tried it alone. When the--the attack happened I was so out of it I couldn't find my pills. But I somehow managed to call Todd. I don't remember what I said, but the attack was letting up by the time he got to me."_

There's that noise again, some sort of hiccup-sob, and it turns Dirk's stomach. _"He forgot his key and I couldn't get up. I was just screaming and he was yelling. I'm surprised he didn't just break a window, but I guess he's always been--"_ Amanda clears her throat. _"He broke in through the garage. He'd called an ambulance on the way but they took forever. I don't know how long. He just stayed with me, got me my meds and it helped, a bit, but the cocaine--Todd saw the line I hadn't done on the counter and figured it out. He was so scared."_

Dirk squeezes his hands together so hard he's vaguely surprised the bones don't snap.

 _"Afterward, at the hospital, before our parents showed up, he gave me this, this just ridiculous big brother speech about drugs."_ She gives a weak, watery laugh. _"It was terrible."_

For a moment it sounds like she's going to keep going with the memory, but she abruptly decides against it.

_"I didn't tell the guy that. I--I only said uppers made the attacks really bad, made the pills less effective. But I didn't tell him that story."_

"That's hardly a consolation," Dirk snaps out before he can think better of it. Farah shoots him a warning look and he watches as Tina's eyebrows creep upward.

"Amanda, as much as I appreciate you sharing all of this--how does it help us?" Farah asks amicably.

_"I... just thought, maybe--he asked about legal stuff. Prescriptions that would make the hallucinations worse--or, no, not **worse**. He said something like, more susceptible to influence?"_

"Okay... so he's looking to trigger specific kinds of attacks?" Tina offers without a shred of confidence.

_"Look, I don't know what the guy was thinking, but I called because--I thought maybe it could help us track him."_

"...How?" Farah asks, clearly trying not to let her frustration bleed through. "Even if we had access to a database like that, and we don't, there would be... probably thousands of names."

Amanda hesitates. _"Your brother's homeland security right? I know it's not his usual thing but if he could get his hands on that, and he got the list to Dirk--"_

"I could, what? Skim thousands of names and _psychically_ pluck one out and say, 'yep! This is our guy!'?" His voice is too loud in the confines of the car. He’s shivering badly.

_"I don't know. "I know it's a stretch."_

Dirk scoffs, preparing a sharp-tongued retort, but he accidentally meets Hobb's sad eyes in the mirror and bites back the words. He lowers his gaze to his quivering hands, ashamed. He half listens as Farah apologizes on his behalf, and he doesn't pull away when her hand reaches over to offer a comforting squeeze on his. His thoughts turn back, roaming dangerously through the information.

He starts to picture it, in ways he hadn't allowed himself to consider before. Todd suffering through _intentionally triggered_ attacks just so that some _monster_ could feed on the pain--

Warm bile pushes its way up into his throat and he swallows it down. But he's opened a floodgate and the images tumble over him, overwhelming him. There's a ringing in his ears but in his mind all he can hear is Todd screaming, pleading, calling out for help--calling out for _Dirk_ \--

"Pull over," he gasps desperately, slapping one hand over his mouth and hitting the back of Hobb's seat with the other. 

The car swerves onto the shoulder and Dirk throws himself out of it, heedless of oncoming vehicles. He stumbles to his knees in the short grass on the side of the road and throws up the remnants of a diner cheeseburger.

“Shit,” he whispers hoarsely. His face is wet with tears and stomach bile and he wipes feebly at it with his sleeve, heaving in air, suddenly very much afraid he's going to hyperventilate and collapse in his own vomit.

But then Hobbs is there, rubbing circles between his shoulder blades with wide warm hands. Farah crouches on his other side, offering him some napkins. He wipes at his mouth and bizarrely finds he wants to ask her where she found them. Leave it to Farah to be prepared for something like this.

"Easy there, buddy, you're okay," the sheriff soothes. 

Dirk's really, really not, but he nods and presses his eyes shut and accepts the offered comfort. Farah says nothing, knowing better than to placate him because she _knows_ , she knows what Todd means to him and if he never sees him again--

His stomach spasms threateningly and he bows over, uncaring if he has to lie in his own filth, but Farah and Hobbs grab hold and gently escort him back to the car. He sits on the passenger seat with the door open, legs sprawled out, head ducked against his chest, and he ignores the bottle of water Farah presses into his hand.

Suddenly Hobbs is back, squatting down so that he's below Dirk and therefore almost in his line of sight. The man starts spewing off soft-worded consolations and promises, and Dirk absorbs them out of sheer desperation. 

He's tucked properly into the seat and harassed into drinking half of the water bottle. He manages to get his breathing almost under control by the time they're halfway back to the hotel.

◈ ◈ ◈

Todd’s in a twilight space between anxiety and exhaustion. He’s pretty sure the drugs are out of his system, but it’s not exactly a victory; he’s glad he can think clearly but he knows that means that the antipsychotics have likely run their course, too, and if his assumptions about his kidnapper are correct that’s certainly bad news. 

He’s nearly convinced himself that Rook’s not coming back for the night when heavy footsteps drop down the stairs beyond the door. Todd wobbles to his feet and stands in the center of the room as the chipped plane of wood creaks open. Rook steps through, dragging a kitchen chair behind him, and smiles when he sees Todd upright. 

“Good. You’re awake. And you haven’t made a mess.”

Todd’s not entirely certain what the fuck that’s supposed to mean, so he says nothing as the man swings the chair around, plants it a few feet away, and turns around to shut the door. There’s a split second in which Todd considers lunging for Rook, but the opportunity slips away faster than his mind can process the pros and cons. 

Rook’s still smiling as he drops down into the chair, studying Todd with amusement as he takes an involuntary step back.

“I’m guessing you have some questions for me.”

That throws Todd, but only for a moment. “Not sure there’s any point in asking.”

“You think I’d just lie, is that it?”

“Something like that.” Todd takes another half-step back, because the room is too small, Rook is too close, and his reptile brain knows pain is on the horizon. 

“Well. I can see why you’d think that,” Rook replies. “I admit that I’ve been less than honest with you. But that was before. That’s what it took to get you here. But,” he spreads his hands and shrugs, “here you are. There’s no reason to lie anymore.”

Todd can’t quite swallow that as true, but he thinks that maybe he can parse out some truth if he asks the right questions. Even if the man lies through every answer, Todd might learn something from those lies. But still he hesitates, trying to think ahead, trying to plan the best series of questions he can.

Rook seems to sense his reluctance--or maybe he’s just impatient. “I can probably guess the big one is. ‘Who are you?’”

Todd narrows his eyes but doesn’t argue.

"As you’ve sussed out, Rook isn’t my real name,” he says. Todd blinks and his confusion must show, because his abductor blinks back and laughs. “What, you don’t remember? You accused me of being... someone else.”

Todd furrows his brows and tries to think back, but there’s a jumble of memories that he can’t possibly untangle in the moment. 

“Well, nevermind. That’s not important.” Todd thinks it really might be. “I’ve gone by a lot of names, but my favorite is probably Bishop. I would have given that one for you to use before, but sadly I’d been occupying that skin with Blackwing,” he continues, offering an apologetic smile. “I couldn’t risk you getting away and telling anyone about it. Just in case. But you can call me that now, if you’d like.”

“I’ll pass,” Todd says, lip curling in an almost-sneer. If that was Rook’s preference, he sure as hell wasn’t going to go with it. 

Rook’s smile turns cold but he doesn’t issue a threat like Todd had half expected. Instead, he shrugs again and leans back in the chair. “What else? Well, as I’ve said, I’m someone special. Like your friend, Dirk Gently. But… also not like him.”

“Your powers--abilities, whatever--they’re different,” Todd says. He’s not sure why he’s filling in the gap, but he’s compelled not to let the conversation get away from him entirely. “You’re like the Rowdy Three.”

“Your sister’s friends? Yes, I’m exactly like that. But I’m not like them.”

Todd frowns, feeling like he’s being played with, but Rook’s eyes are serious. “Those men, they’re a blitzkrieg--they’re chaos incarnate and they use that madness to juice up their feedings. But me? I’m a knife in the dark.”

Todd doesn’t much like that metaphor. He tries to look disinterested but probably only succeeds in looking scared. “So what?”

“I’m just trying to help you understand. I won’t be smashing anything, or screaming, or any of that nonsense. That’s not how I prime my chosen ones.”

“Chosen ones?” Todd repeats with as much snark as he can manage, falling back on his innate ability to mock. But Rook doesn’t seem bothered. 

“I’m picky. I choose my people carefully.”

Todd frowns, remembering Rook had said things in the bathroom, but that brings back memories of being shaved and rinsed in the tub and his stomach flip-flops with anger, then fear. “And that’s why I’m here.”

“You got it. You probably would’ve gotten it sooner too, if you hadn’t been drugged to the gills. Sorry about that, by the way. I didn’t think I could threaten you into complete compliance and I figured that a few sedatives was better than violence.” Rook pauses, likely examining the nasty bruise over Todd’s eye socket, but he clearly doesn’t care enough to amend his statement. “But yes--that’s why you’re here. You and I are about to enter into a symbiotic relationship.”

“Fuck you,” Todd spits out, but it sounds weak.

"I might deserve that, what with the whole kidnapping thing, but you should really watch your mouth, Todd. I’m allowing you relative comfort and privacy, you’d do well not to bite the proverbial hand.”

Todd doesn’t allow himself to wonder what the alternative is; the basement isn’t fun but he can survive it. He hopes he won’t have to tolerate it for more than a few days, but he wasn’t born an optimist. 

For some reason that makes him think of Dirk, and suddenly his eyes feel suspiciously wet. 

Rook’s not really paying enough attention to notice, though. He’s back to talking about himself, something about a ‘personality chameleon’ and a Blackwing file, and Todd only tunes back in to avoid thinking about Dirk and Farah. 

“So, I don't have to pretend around you. It's nice, actually. Normally I only get to drop the mask the moment before I, you know, kill someone." He pauses to offer a lopsided smile. "I like that I can be honest with you. It's good, especially because we're going to be spending so much time together, Todd. I've even come to think of us as friends."

“You’re insane,” Todd protests hotly. “And what the hell is it with you Blackwing test subjects and your obsession with _friendship_ anyway?”

Rook tilts his head at that, uncomprehending, but Todd’s not about to explain the trend to him, though he can’t help but think back on Dirk’s immediate insistence on being best friends, and that Bart woman’s assertion that two or three not-murderous meetings make the same. 

“There’s no need to make comparisons, Todd,” Rook says after a long moment, sounding strangely strained. “For one thing, it’s not polite. And for another, well… you won’t have to worry about the others anymore. It’s just going to be you and me from now on.”

Todd’s got another ‘fuck you’ geared up and ready, but before he can fire it off Rook pulls out a surgical blade from his jacket and Todd’s head goes fuzzy with fear.

“Don’t be like that,” Rook coos, watching his face closely and uncapping the little plastic cover from the sharp tip. “It feels good, Todd. Why else would Amanda allow my kin to do it to her?”

That makes Todd hesitate. He’d thought about that quite a bit since Wendimoor and he’s been meaning to ask, but Amanda’s communication with him has been sporadic at best and he’s never had the opportunity to ask what it’s like when the Rowdy Three do their Thing.

“I think you’ll even like it, once the attack stops.” Rook takes a slow step forward and Todd collapses back, tripping over his own feet and stirring up dust where he lands. He inhales and coughs to try to clear his stinging throat, but it doesn’t work--his chest heaves with a violent wheeze and he can feel the dirt in his mouth, his nose--the grit fills him and he can’t _breathe_ \--

For a long moment Todd knows only animal panic. Some distant part of him understands that he’s having that long anticipated pararibulitis attack but he can’t think to question why Rook’s letting it drag on so long. He can only claw helplessly at his nose and throat and writhe on the ground.

His vision goes spotty, then gray at the edges, and he hears a gurgling sound that can only be coming from his own mouth.

Then the tightness in his chest is abruptly alleviated, but what replaces it is an agony so complete it strips every part of him away. There is no notion of what’s happening, no brain with which to wonder. He’s sundered on the molecular level and the sensation is crippling, debilitating in the extreme. Every cell is cleaved open and he pours out into a nothingness that’s beyond him, beyond it _all_. 

Thought and self fall away.

He’s a black hole.

He’s an insignificant, dumb beast screaming in the dark. 

Time is divided abruptly into a sense of _before_ and _after_ , and once Todd crosses the line he’s left reeling and screeching the last of the pain out until his throat is sandpaper raw.

His vision clears in degrees. 

Light returns in a gentle ebb that’s so at odds with bone-cracking tension in his body that he would likely find it funny, if only he could summon one single thought back into his brain. He blinks and lays panting in the dirt. 

“Interesting.” 

Todd doesn’t know who is speaking, where he is, what’s happening--not until the face hovering over him slides into focus. The memories trickle in slowly, filling him like a cancer, and Rook watches it happen with an air of disappointment.

A warm weight is lifted off of his chest and Todd understands that Rook had had his hand there, and Todd hates that he’s left feeling chilled and bereft without that contact, that miniscule comfort. 

“I admit... that that wasn’t what I expected,” Rook says quietly. “You’re not like her after all, are you?”

Todd’s mind straddles between incomprehension and terrible understanding. An ugly sound comes out of him.

“You’re not like _me_ ,” Rook says. His face swims out of focus again and Todd has to close his eyes against the whirl of nausea, still fighting to get his breath back. “That hurt you, didn’t it, Todd?”

He hates the man too much to give any indication that he’s heard what was perhaps the greatest understatement of his life. There’s no way to describe the intensity of the agony. He has no frame of reference for having the _life_ forced out of his wretched nerves. 

“I thought you were different. I thought you were more than just--just some human. If you were _more_ , that wouldn’t have hurt, would it? It would have felt euphoric, you may have even been granted visions or prophecies. Just like your sister.”

Todd vaguely understands what’s being said to him, and he realizes that it’s important but it’s all that he can do to cling to consciousness. He hears a heavy sigh and a warm, minty breath puff against his face.

“How disappointing.” 

Todd gives a token twitch of protest when Rook grabs him roughly by the arms and drags him across the floor. He lands on something soft and foul-smelling. 

Time stretches out, elastic, contorting. There’s an angry voice and a constant throb of pain somewhere deep inside of his bones. His muscles twitch with the remnants of electricity and he wants to shout, to tell Dirk to run, to call out for Farah because _the men are here_ and Lydia’s back in her body but she’s still in danger and--

A cinderblock connects with his stomach and he cries out hoarsely. He twists away from the pain and the sharp snap of a man’s voice, clutching his aching midsection. He’s in the space inbetween the Spring Mansion and the basement of an anonymous country farmhouse, a ghost navigating the emptiness in between, and then he’s abruptly pulled back into the dank, dark room with Rook.

Todd makes out a something that could be the word ‘sorry’, and he understands that he’s been kicked hard. He gasps out a plea but he’s unsure if he even makes a sound. His eyes are already open and he struggles to keep their focus in one place, but it’s all the same--a punch-drunk blur of light and shadow. 

“I shouldn’t have done that,” Rook says slowly, out of breath and, against all logic, concerned. “It’s not your fault that it doesn’t work the same way for you. It doesn’t mean you’re not--I’m sorry, Todd. It’s unfair to abuse you without even knowing for sure.”

Rook crouches down and sets an uncertain hand on his shoulder and Todd shifts savagely away, uncaring that his face is pressed against the old mattress. 

“You rest now. We’ll work it out.” The words are a whisper somewhere above his ear, but they’re fading fast. “We’ll work it all out together.”

Todd lets go of his tenuous hold on the waking world and embraces the plunge into nothingness with relief.


	6. Fault Line

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 5/27 Update: Yeah so I finally got around to changing the title of this story lmao. 'A Gossamer Web' was supposed to be a temporary placeholder, but several weeks and six chapters later I still hadn't gotten around to changing it. I was a bit stuck on a decision, but I've made that decision and finally felt it was time to retitle this story.  
> Sorry for any confusion!

Dirk's alone in the hotel room, but he scurries frantically to the bathroom all the same, red-faced with shame. He'd woken up to sticky boxerbriefs and no Farah, and he's never felt such a monstrous combination of relief and self-loathing.

Dirk locks the bathroom door and turns on the shower, adjusting only the cold tap. He strips quickly and steps under the freezing spray of water. It's terrible, and he endures it as punishment for approximately one minute before giving himself a break. He turns the heat handle halfway, then scales it back when he decides that a nice hot shower was taking it too far.

He thinks a lukewarm one is an okay consequence for having a highly inappropriate dream about one's best friend, especially in light of the particular circumstances. It's not the first wet dream he's had about Todd in recent months, but it had been different before--it had always happened in the safety of his own bedroom and Todd had been less kidnapped. Significantly less kidnapped.

Before, those kinds of dreams had been embarrassing but pleasant, and he accepted them as a natural part of body-ownership. They'd allowed him a window through which to glimpse the 'what ifs' and work through some increasingly complicated feelings. But now they felt perverse, and worse, somehow cowardly. The thought of someone knowing makes him want to curl up in a ball and never leave the shower.

The fact that he himself has to know about it is almost just as bad.

Dirk bangs his head only semi-gently against the off-white tile wall. "Stupid, terrible Dirk," he says, hoping that berating himself will take some of the sting of humiliation away. How could he--? With Farah in the other bed not _two feet away?_

He just hopes she’d left well before his sleeping brain had hijacked his body. He can't imagine facing her if she had seen or heard anything, especially when she would, without a doubt, guess the contents of said dream. Reminded of that content, Dirk swallows hard and tries to banish away the image of Todd on his knees, and he decides that Shower Time is over. As one last self-serving gesture of repentance, he turns off the hot water and endures the cold for an entire three minutes before stepping out.

Dirk takes his time toweling off and getting ready, fearful that Farah’s returned, but the room is still empty when he steps hesitantly out of the bathroom. The relief is curtailed when he realizes that the bed might give it away. He quickly scours it but sees no evidence that anything had, well, gotten through. Dirk sends out a vague thank-you to his past self for having chosen to sleep with pajama bottoms, which he stuffs into a plastic bag along with his briefs, which then gets shoved into the suitcase Farah had gotten him.

He opens the window, just in case there’s some smell he himself cannot smell, and the sits down on the edge of his bed. He unplugs his phone from the charger and checks his messages. There's a text from Farah explaining that she and Tina have gone for a walk, and one from Hobbs from less than five minutes ago, inviting him down to the continental breakfast in the hotel’s conference room.

Dirk doesn't want to leave the room but his stomach growls at the prospect of waffles, and so he's betrayed by his body for the second time that morning.

He pockets his phone, checks his hair in the mirror, and then removes the plastic 'Do Not Disturb' tag from the handle, hoping room service would be by before he and Farah came back up to collect their things.

He rides the elevator down and avoids his own reflection on the polished metal walls.

◈ ◈ ◈

Farah doesn’t really care much for Spokane, but she has to admit that the sunrise isn’t bad. There’s certainly less pollution. But, actually, doesn’t that improve sunrises? Or what that only sunsets?

Farah’s pulled from her musing when Tina points out a group of plump birds on a sagging powerline, and she’s surprised by the tug of fondness in her chest at her friend’s easy delight.

“I’m glad you convinced me to break in to the rooftop, Farah.”

“--I didn’t convince--”

“--Break out? Break out to the rooftop? Do you still say ‘break in’ when you’re outside?”

Farah smiles and shakes her head, recognizing that she’s being teased, and she accepts a playful shoulder nudge in good humor. There’s a moment of comfortable silence, but when Farah glances over Tina’s got a solemn look on her face.

“What’s up?” she asks quietly.

“Just wondering how you’re holding up.”

Farah tilts her head back and forth, like she’s considering it. She does, in fact, know the answer, but she’s not sure how honest she should be. 

“I’ll be alright. I’ve done this once before, after all. Well, twice, if you count Lydia disappearing.”

“Yeah, that’s true.”

“But… it is different, roadtripping a search and rescue with Dirk.”

“Seems like he’s a bit squirrely. Well, squirriler.”

“You have no idea--I mean really, _no idea_ what it’s been like, Tina. Dirk is acting like…”

“Like a tragic widow, waiting for her husband to come back from The War?”

“Well.” Farah thinks it over. “That might be pushing it. But he’s definitely--something. Despondent is the word I’d choose.”

“Yeah, and I get it, you know? I mean, yeah, they were pretty much glued to the hip in Bergsberg, but this is some _next level_ angsting. Are they, y’know…?” Tina waggles her eyebrows suggestively, and Farah clears her throat and tries to think of a delicate way of answering that question for the second time that year.

“No, not that I know of. But back home, back before this… It’s hard to explain. Dirk’s got a crush--”

Tina chortles at the word choice, but Farah stands by it.

“--and before all of this... it just seems like he’s been pushing his luck lately.”

“You think Todd’s not into it?”

Farah frowns, scratching awkwardly at the back of her neck. “I hate to use the cliche, but I think Dirk’s barking up the wrong tree.”

"What, like, are you serious?" Tina laughs, in that way that people do when they're trying not to be mean. "Shit man, you do know he was a band right?"

"What? Yes, but--"

"A band in the _mid 2000s Seattle alt scene_?"

Farah heaves a sigh. "Tina, what does that have to do with anything?"

"Dude, really? Kurt Cobain culture, man."

Farah genuinely doesn't know if she's being teased at this point, but before she can figure it out Tina's making a sound of mock disappointment. 

"You really need to get out more, Farah. Kurt Cobain was--"

"I know who he was."

"Well, he was bi as fuck, man. He was pret-ty vocal about it, too. And after that it wasn't like a trend, per se, but dude did it open some doors. Kinda made it sort of okay in the alternative music scene sometimes, you know?"

"Okay... but what does that have to do with Todd? Just because he was in a band in Seattle--"

"An _alternative_ band in Seattle. In the height of Cobain culture. Have you even googled Todd?" There's another laugh at Farah's uneasy silence. "I can't believe you've been riding around doing this magic detective stuff with Todd freaking Brotzman and you _haven't even looked him up?_ "

"I--"

"I mean, _come on_ \--"

"Okay," Farah grumbles, suddenly feeling more than a little embarrassed. “He doesn’t talk about it much, okay? But I admit I didn't know it was such a big deal. "

"What, you thought he was just some guy playing in his mom's garage or something?"

"No! Nothing like that but... I don't know, it just never really comes up."

" _Dude_."

"Tina!"

"Okay, okay. I'm just saying."

"I still don't understand what any of this has to do with Todd and _Dirk_."

" _Well_ , if you'd thought to look it up, you'd know that there are at _least_ three separate rumors that he was with the vocalist for ‘Asmoth’."

"For what--?"

"Oh, Farah," Tina groans. "Do you even listen to music?"

"Yes!"

"What are we talking about here? Like, Mozart?" 

Farah knows she’s being teased and she’s smart enough not to take the bait, but she feels the blood rush to her face all the same. "So, you're saying--what? This singer was a--"

"Yeah, he was a dude. Is a dude. He's not dead or anything."

Farah pauses to process. It's not really a surprise that Todd might have been with a man, especially not in his band days, because he certainly wasn’t close-minded despite his grumpy temperament. But she can't puzzle out why it makes her feel off-kilter.

"Anyway, I'm sorry, man. I didn't mean to rag on you so hard."

"No, no you're not wrong, Tina. I guess it just never occurred to me. You mentioned it, that they could be--something, back when we were in Bergsberg. But..."

"But what?" Tina asks, and Farah wonders about the sudden hesitance in her friend's voice.

"I don't know."

"It's not like a problem for you, is it?"

"No," Farah replies, confused by the question. "I mean--okay, we made out a couple of times when we were on the run, and sometimes it went a bit beyond that but it was never--"

" _What?_ " Tina shrieks. "Dude! Dude! You said nothing happened!"

Farah coughs convulsively, caught out. "No, I said that we weren't together! And it was true, it was just... blowing off steam."

"Farah, you sly dog," Tina teases, practically glowing with glee. "Was he... y'know, good?"

"Tina!"

"Just kidding, man." She throws up her hands in a placating gesture. "I was just wondering if that's why you're in such a tizzy."

"I'm not in a _tizzy_ , I'm just... processing." 

There's a silence then, and it's neither comfortable nor awkward. After a few moments of chewing at her lip, Tina asks, "is it really so crazy to think he's not straight?"

"No, it isn't that. That actually does make some sense, I guess. But--oh." Farah suddenly shifts uncomfortably, realizing her mistake. "Oh, Tina, I didn't mean--I don't have anything against people who are bisexual."

"It's cool, man."

"No, really, I'm sorry if I came off... judgmental."

Tina shrugs and smiles. "It's all good, Farah, I know you're not, like, a bigot or anything. You do seem kinda tweaked about the idea of him and Dirk, though."

Farah considers that. "Well, that part of it is... hard to reconcile. Dirk's different. Odd. Sometimes he's normal, or normalish, but sometimes--"

"He may as well be a baby. Or an alien," Tina supplies helpfully. “An alien baby.”

"Er, yeah, sort of."

"Being raised in a secret government prison for psychics probably does that to a person."

"Probably," Farah agrees, feeling wrong-footed again. She looks down at her hands and frowns. "To be perfectly honest, I hadn't thought about why it bothers me. But I admit that I’m not crazy about the idea."

Tina regards her with curiosity, her eyes sympathetic. 

"I guess... more than anything, I’m afraid that they’re going to hurt each other, and I'm going to be caught in the middle."

"What? What do you mean?"

"Dirk's always been all over Todd, but at first it just seemed like Todd was his first and only friend and he was overcompensating. Which, is actually probably true. Even though he knew some of the other projects at Blackwing, I don't know how close they were."

"Like that shapeshifter lady you mentioned?"

"Mona? Yes, I would think Dirk would think of her as a friend, but… I don't know. I’m not sure I’ve ever actually heard him call her that.”

"Anyway," Tina prompts, raising her eyebrows.

"Anyway, at first it was like that. And Todd obviously found it annoying. But then Dirk got taken and Todd started having attacks and it all went to hell. And ever since we got Dirk back it's been different, somehow."

Farah pauses, pulling various memories back and forth. "Dirk's a lot more touchy, and he never wants to be away from Todd. Well, he was like that before too, but it's worse now. He’s getting more and more overt with his feelings. And Todd, he's not the touchy-feely type, you know?"

Tina tilts her head and makes a squinty face, like she's undecided on the subject. 

"I just thought that if Dirk took it too far and Todd reacted badly... I just thought that maybe we couldn't come back from that," Farah admits in a rush of words, startled by the relief that comes with saying it. She realizes she's been circling around that conclusion for a while, and it feels good to finally pinpoint it. "They're my family, Tina. Both of them, for better or worse. I don't know what I would do if..."

Farah trails off quietly, not entirely sure of how to phrase it. Tina gives her shoulder another playful nudge.

"You really think Dirk would _ever_ let it go that easy? That he’d let a little rejection chase him off?”

Farah barks out a little laugh at that. "I guess not. But Todd--"

"Todd might need some space," Tina agrees good-naturedly. "At least for a while. He can be a bit pessimistic, it’s just like a character trait."

Farah glances at the deputy with amusement, wondering at how confident Tina sounds with that conclusion, like she’s known Todd for years. 

"What?" Tina asks, noticing the look on her face.

"Tina--are you a _fan?_ "

Her friend blinks, then throws her a grin. "Uh, yeah, man! Mexican Funeral was _the shit_ , I thought I was high off my ass when I first realized who we had locked in the evidence closet!"

"Wow. Forget fan, you sound like a groupie," Farah teases, but Tina doesn't bother to look abashed.

"Hey, the alt scene is my thing."

Farah laughs and Tina throws a friendly arm around her shoulder.

"For what it's worth, Dirk and Todd, I think they fit good together."

Farah purses her mouth and thinks it over. "I just can't picture it," she admits with a small smile. "But I never would have pictured Todd and myself, so... I guess you just never know."

"Right on," Tina agrees, bobbing her head peacefully. 

“And I guess I probably should have noticed if Todd was… receptive to other sexualities,” she continues, deciding that she likes and trusts Tina enough to let down her guard a bit. “After all, I’m not exactly rigid with my preferences either.”

Tina nods along then freezes, processing the implication, and she swings her head around to stare at Farah with cartoonishly huge eyes.

“I’m sorry, _what?!_ ”

◈ ◈ ◈

They've just begun to investigate Spokane for a lead when Amanda rings again. Dirk feels an unfair shiver of dread and nearly asks Farah to ignore the call, but he can't begin to stumble through an explanation as to why. He glances in the rearview mirror for Hobbs' car and finds it following faithfully, Tina moving wildly to music and Hobbs bobbing his head along, and Dirk feels immediate regret for selecting the wrong car.

Farah answers, and she and Amanda run through the basics--they're hunting for a clue as to Todd's whereabouts and she's on her way to Seattle to try to pick up the trail; he listens with some amusement as she compares the Rowdy Three to a pack of bloodhounds but he knows better than to get his hopes up. Amanda isn't meant to find Todd, and Dirk can feel it in his bones.

He clears his throat, interrupting Farah’s half-hearted encouragements to Amanda, and asks the question that’s been simmering inside of him since they checked out of the Paradise Inn and continued east.

“What if we--what about Blackwing?”

There’s a breathless silence in which Farah nearly swerves the car in surprise, and then Amanda barks out a sharp protest. 

_“What the fuck **about** Blackwing, Dirk?”_

“Perhaps we could, should, consider… reaching out to them.”

“Working with them, you mean?” Farah asks unhappily, keeping her eyes on the road despite the fact that it’s obvious she wants to convey her disappointment with more than that tone of voice. 

_“Dirk. What the fuck. We are **not** involving the government--”_

“They’re already involved, Amanda! The man who abducted your brother is connected to them--they’re hunting for him, they have the information and the resources that we--”

“Dirk, no.” 

“Farah--”

_“Dirk are you out of your mind? There’s no way--”_

“Look, I’m just saying--we have to consider it as an option. If the Rowdy Three can’t sniff out a trail, if the, the universe isn’t guiding me--us--then we--”

_“You’re delusional if you think they’d do more than throw you back in a black site, Dirk.”_

Dirk tries to bite back the thought that springs to mind, but it's out of his mouth before he can chew it off. "Just because you don't care about your brother anymore doesn't mean that _we don't care_."

Farah sucks in a sharp breath of alarm and Amanda makes an unidentifiable noise on the other end of the line.

"We're going to do whatever it takes, because he would do the same for us. And... because he deserves to be safe."

_“I'm not--what the fuck is--of course I want him to be safe--"_

"Do you?" he challenges, breathing hard. "Do you really? You gave a complete stranger the _perfect_ ammunition to use against him, and now he's--he's _gone_ , Amanda, and you refuse to consider one of the very few options that we have--"

"Dirk, of course Amanda cares about Todd," Farah cuts in, sending him a look that informs him she's concerned for his mental health.

"Not enough to do what needs doing, apparently."

_“Hey! That's not fair and you know it, Dirk. He's my brother and he hurt me, he hurt me really fucking bad but that doesn't mean I'm not going to save his ass. What the hell makes you think I wouldn't?"_

“You left him. Twice. You never return his calls and you barely reply to his texts, you leave him to worry about you all the time when a simple ‘I’m okay’ every week or two would set his mind at ease! It’s true that he lied to you about having pararibulitis, but he never did it to hurt you--”

_“Dirk, no offense, but what the hell? Are you really defending him right now? He lied for **years** \--”_

“The only reason he kept it up was to protect you! He needed to give you hope, Amanda. He was afraid of what you would do if you knew that there wasn’t a cure.”

Amanda says nothing, but her hostility comes through the line in waves.

“I know it sucks,” he rambles, the Americanism sounding awkward on his tongue. “But he’s your brother. He’s family. And he _loves_ you, Amanda. He would die for you in a heartbeat. All he’s ever wanted was to keep you safe, even if that meant lying.”

_“Dirk--”_

“Do you--do you have any idea what I would give, to have a family? I have nothing, Amanda. I have no one. You have your parents, and you have a brother that loves you more than anything in the world. And he needs your help. He needs it right now. And if that means working with--with Blackwing--”

“Dirk, no,” Farah interrupts, adamant. “We are _not_ putting ourselves in that position.” She grips the steering wheel so hard Dirk’s surprised it doesn’t crack under the strain. “Don’t even think about it.”

Dirk deflates against the seat, wet-eyed and angry. But he’s also terrified. He knows he had more than one lucky break in regard to his recent escapes, and he’s pretty sure he won’t have an intergalactic snail woman to rely upon a second time.

_“Dirk, look. I know you have a thing for my brother, but you don’t get it--”_

“I do,” he insists. Amanda huffs out in frustration.

_“Jesus, Dirk! I swear, Todd could punt a puppy across the room and you’d find a way to justify it!”_

Dirk opens his mouth, a protest at the ready, but he considers the hyperbole. “Well. Todd’s quite fond of dogs, animals in general--defenseless things, really--so, yes, I’m sure he’d have his reasons. Like, maybe if the puppy were actually--”

 _“This is exactly what I’m talking about!”_ Amanda complains loudly. _“Todd isn’t perfect, Dirk.”_

Dirk’s inclined to disagree, but he’s pretty sure saying so out loud wouldn’t help his case.

_“And he knows he isn’t. Even he accepts that. Maybe you should, too!”_

Dirk narrows his eyes and glowers at the scenery blurring by outside the window. 

“Guys,” Farah says softly, when it’s clear they’re at an impasse. “I get that you both have your own strong feelings about Todd, but how is this going to help us find him? We need to work together, not argue about--”

“You’re right,” Dirk interrupts, in part because he does agree and in part because he doesn’t want to hear Amanda trying to convince him her brother is a bad person.

 _“Whatever,”_ Amanda grumbles, but there’s no heat in it. 

Farah lets out a sigh, obviously relieved, but no one has any new insight to offer--they’ve got nearly nothing to go on, no trail to follow. Except--

“Blackwing,” Dirk says into the expectant silence. “I stand by what I said earlier. If anyone has a lead, it will be them.”

_“And why the fuck would they help us, Dirk? Huh? Because, what, you think you can offer to trade yourself in, in exchange for that information? And that you’ll somehow trick them or get away because ‘the universe wills it’?”_

Dirk says nothing. Farah throws him a frightened glance. 

_“Newsflash, dumbass, that’s playing exactly into their hands!”_

“You don’t--”

_“Seriously, how dense are you? You know these people, Dirk. They don’t give a shit about Todd, the second they get their hands on you--you really think they’re going to help him after they get what they want?”_

Dirk’s stomach puckers up into his ribcage and it’s hard to draw in air. Somehow he hadn’t considered that possibility, but it rings true, like a shrill, unwelcome alarm. Amanda accurately reads his silence, but she’s gracious enough not to rub it in.

 _“Dirk I do get it, okay? I get it.”_ She’s going for placating now, and in his shame he allows it. _“We’re going to get him back, and we’re not going to need Blackwing to do it. Okay?”_

Dirk stares out the windshield in a numb sort of horror--horror at the realization that he had begun forming a half-baked plan to contact Blackwing behind Farah’s back and horror at the understanding that one of the few doors to finding Todd just slammed shut.

_“Dirk, I’m going to need you to say ‘okay’.”_

“Okay,” he mumbles out, feeling thick-tongued and bloodless. 

_“Okay,”_ Amanda repeats quietly. Dirk hears forgiveness in her voice and it makes him ill with relief.

“I’m--sorry, Amanda, that wasn’t--”

 _“It’s okay, Dork,”_ she jokes quickly, sparing him from having to articulate anything out loud. He wonders how it is that she could accept his weak not-quite-apology so readily and abruptly thinks back to their first meeting, and the second. He realizes that she’s always treated him with kindness--even before Todd had, although Dirk loathes to admit that, even in the privacy of his own heart. 

_“Really, I get it. I know what this shit can do to a person, and you’re, like, well, you’re you.”_

“Alright,” Farah says, clearing her throat. “You guys good? Can we move on?”

Dirk and Amanda both mumble in agreement, and he tries to absorb the goodwill of a woman he’d just unloaded every acrimonious thought upon. He vows to make it up to her, once everything is said and done, but he honestly doesn’t know how even begin figuring out how to do so.

One thing at a time, he decides, though it does little to settle the acidic guilt wearing away his insides.

The women have decided that he’s useless for conversation and they pick up the slack, turning over ideas and sorting through theories until Amanda announces that they’re down the street from the Ridgely and abruptly hangs up on them. 

Farah glances at the GPS and then Hobbs’ car in the rearview mirror. Dirk senses that she wants to talk about it and he scrambles to set up a decent defense, but her shoulders sag and she says nothing. 

He holds his breath, then lets it out in a long _whoosh_ of air when he accepts that there’s no lecture coming. 

“I’m sorry,” he tells her, dazed. 

“I know.” 

“I don’t know why--”

“I think you do,” she says in an attempt at levity, but she reads the misery in his face. "Amanda understands. You heard her--and she's not the type to lie about something like that. She speaks what's on her mind." Farah pauses, angling for amused again. "Not unlike you lately, as a matter of fact."

He looks at her, incredulous. "I've always been--okay, well, I'm usually quite honest, Farah."

She only offers a shrug. "Sometimes. About some things.”

“Ah,” Dirk coughs out, realizing that they’re suddenly talking about something else. He blinks the sunshine out of his eyes and watches the horizon. 

“You have regrets,” Farah tells him. “You regret not speaking your mind about--things--before. And it’s okay to be honest about what you’re feeling, even now, but you can’t keep lashing out at us.”

His head bows with the weight of his embarrassment, but there's only sympathy in her voice.

"We're here for you. We're in this together. You do have a family, Dirk; Todd, Amanda, and I, we're your family now."

"I know that." He does.

"Good."

"Francis--before sending me back from Wendimoor, he said something similar."

Farah glances over curiously, but Dirk falls into the memory and doesn't elaborate, choosing instead to live inside of the moment he'd realized-- _really_ realized--what that meant. He closes his eyes and sees Todd in the Montana sunlight with his ridiculous dye-job, hands tucked deep into his pockets with a smile on his face.

Farah makes a humming noise in the back of her throat, an acknowledgment of something that Dirk doesn't understand, and then she switches on the radio and allows the gentle crooning of a country song to fill the car in the place of Dirk’s unsteady breathing.

◈ ◈ ◈

Todd lies on his back in the bathroom and watches a little black spider walk across the ceiling. The florence is violently bright, but the main room is an empty void at night and he feels like he'll lose his mind if he has to sit through it alone.

At least the spider is here.

He tilts his head and frowns at it. Maybe he'd been a bit hasty--it could be a brown spider. A very dark brown one. A life's worth of ambivalence about arachnids means that he has no idea what kind it is, but it's small and moves fast, then slow, and then settles into a corner and Todd's glad for the company.

And, yes, he’s lonely but he’s not afraid, at least not yet. He’d woken up on the mattress feeling oddly at peace. The sensation hadn’t last very long, but a pleasant numbness had lingered in its place. He thinks he must have had a good dream, but when he tries to focus in on a memory it slips away. The pain from whatever Rook had done is also a distant thing, inconsequential in the moment.

Todd stares at the ceiling. He thinks there had been an ocean, some vast vacuum of dark space, and there had been a voice. Todd squints, struggling to recall it--it had been male, American, and adult-sounding. The voice hadn’t been scared, or angry, or happy. The only word that Todd can come up with to describe it is ‘awkward’. 

The light flickers and he glances at the mirror. He can't see his own reflection from the floor, but he's reasonably sure he looks like shit. He briefly allows himself to fantasize about Farah and Dirk bursting in to rescue him--Farah would secure the room, gun drawn, and Dirk would rush over in a frantic blur of concern and long limbs, only to insult the state of Todd's hair.

He smiles for a second, but it makes his battered eye ache and he drops it again.

He wonders what it means, and if it matters, that Amanda doesn't feature in any of his rescue daydreams.

Recognizing the start of a downward spiral, Todd sits up with an effort and leans over into the tub. He turns the tap on and drinks water from his palm, then rubs his wet hands across his face and neck. It helps a bit. Makes him feel a little more human.

He turns off the water and slouches against the outside of the tub, letting his hands fall limply into his lap.

"Should've taken Dirk up on his offer," Todd rasps with something like a laugh. "Alaska sounds pretty good right now."

He indulges in ten minutes worth of picturing Dirk trying to handle a dog team, snow, puffy clothing--Todd huffs because a real laugh would hurt too much. Dirk would never survive a rugged lifestyle. 

There's a sharp creak of wood from above and he tenses, listening, but he can't figure out what Rook's doing up there. Todd's heard the man come and go a few times throughout the day, but he'd only visited Todd in the basement once. He'd dropped off a carton of fried rice from some Chinese restaurant with a name Todd can't read, and he'd stared at Todd for a while and then left without a word.

Todd had only eaten a quarter of the carton before giving up. There was something about being locked in a musty basement that wasn't really stimulating his appetite. 

Todd glances out into the other room, picturing the carton in his mind. Could he fashion a weapon out of the little metal handle on top? Maybe some kind of tiny shank?

Maybe, but he doubts it would be enough. Rook isn't an especially large man, but he is larger than Todd, and stronger, and well rested--even if Todd did stab him with a little metal poker he can't imagine it would do much more than piss Rook off. He might be able to skewer one eye and run, but Rook would have a spare eye and a hell of a lot of motivation to chase him down and make him hurt.

Todd pictures Rook plucking out his eyes as punishment, because he was most definitely a literal 'eye for an eye' kind of guy. Todd briefly imagines being blind, imagines the gaping sockets in his own face, and feels violently queasy. Worried he's about to lose what little food he's managed to swallow down, Todd desperately disregards that particular scenario.

He could always take the metal now and save it for something later, but there was a good chance Rook would check for it before he tossed the box, and Todd doesn't doubt that that would lead to some pretty unpleasant consequences, too.

So, no tampering with the chinese food carton.

Todd's thoughts cast out, fishing for a distraction, and his eyes find the little black spider again but mind settles on a little black kitten instead. He wonders where the kitten-shark is. He hopes it's alright, in part because it was just a little kitten in body, alone in the woods, and in part because it did save him and Dirk in the end.

Todd muses on that.

The kitten-shark had specifically gone after the two Men of the Machine when it ‘went off’, even though it could have easily turned on them, too. But it hadn’t. Against all odds, he thinks it might have even been _protecting_ them. He thinks of Dirk cuddling the kitten, giving it little scritches, and his chest thumps painfully. 

The lights flicker again and Todd drifts reluctantly back to reality. The kitten-shark was probably fine. It was two predators combined in one, after all. He really should worry more about himself.

That particular hunch proves to be horrifyingly accurate, and within the hour, no less.

Rook enters the basement with a brand new laptop tucked under one arm and a dead-eyed smile. Tood watches him warily from the bathroom doorway, offering only silence as Rook shuts and locks the door behind him.

To Todd’s immense surprise, Rook sits down on the edge of the mattress, legs sprawled out on the floor, seemingly oblivious to the stains and the smell from god-knows-what in years past. Rook sets the computer on his lap and opens the lid, then begins typing. He’s facing Todd, so Todd can’t see the screen, and he’s morbidly curious. 

After three full minutes of silence, Rook glances up and studies him, like he’s trying to make a decision, and Todd wets his lips nervously.

“Can you believe I was naïve enough to think you’d want to stay? Not at first, not even for a long while. But eventually. I thought that we could both get what we needed.” Rook’s eyes are sad and cold, a distant storm in the dark. “I had it planned out. I did research.”

Todd bites down a scathing reply, biding his time, and somehow Rook seems to appreciate his silence. Like Todd’s being a good listener.

“I thought we were a pair, you and I. Two sides of the same coin. Like your sister and her gang.” Rook throws him a rueful smile. “But you’ll never willingly stay, will you? I don’t know exactly what it’s like for you, Todd, but I know it’s painful.”

Todd’s head goes a little fuzzy at the thought, like his mind is desperately censoring the memory of it. 

“It occurred to me to threaten to take your sister instead, but that’s not a very realistic threat, now is it? She’s well protected, and that aside, how could I reasonably expect that to keep you in place, knowing what you did to your family, just for _money_? I don’t think you’d suffer for her, you’d sooner save your own skin--you’re not exactly the self-sacrificing kind.”

Todd’s face burns but he has no argument against that, no defense on which to stand, so he says nothing.

“And so, all of my expectations… wasted,” Rook says. He stares for several long seconds, blinking his vacant eyes, considering Todd like he’s some sort of unwelcome puzzle.

“Come over here. I have something to show you.”

Todd considers his options. He’s still curious, but he’s even more wary of getting within an arm’s length of Rook. But if Rook really wanted to inflict harm, Todd didn’t have a lot of room to run--he was just delaying the inevitable by refusing, or worse, asking for a beating.

Besides, it might have something to do with Dirk, or Farah. Or Amanda. 

Todd takes a tentative step forward, then another, and he leans in to try to see the screen but Rook abruptly angles it away.

“Sit down, Todd,” Rook instructs, looking unhappy that the clarification was needed. 

Todd slides down to sit next to Rook on the mattress, taut as a bowstring, and Rook rotates the computer so that they can both see. Todd frowns at the screen, confused. It’s a video, paused but primed to go, and when he searches the slightly pixelated faces he doesn’t recognize anyone.

He cautiously looks at Rook, who promptly unmutes the computer. “Now, I know this is going to be difficult, but you’re going to watch this either way.” 

Todd’s completely bewildered now, but Rook doesn’t give him the chance to ask. “You can sit here quietly and watch. Or, if you choose not to, I’m sure you can figure out what the alternative might be.”

Todd gives a stiff nod. Rook relaxes and smiles at him, and Todd’s not sure if the sadness that seems to shade it is real or performative. “Good. Thank you.”

Todd’s lip curls, but Rook’s already looking at the laptop. Todd hears a key click on the keyboard and he glances down, puzzled, as the video starts to play on the screen. 

He could be forgiven for mistaking it for a home movie at first, but it doesn’t take him long to understand that it isn’t anything so wholesome or innocent. He tells himself it isn’t real at first, but he knows some sick shit exists on the internet, and it soon becomes obvious that it’s legitimate.

“From Bosnia,” Rook says quietly, like they’re in a movie theater and he doesn’t want to distract other viewers from the experience. Todd notices that the clip is filed under a folder marked _‘inspiration?’_ just as the screaming starts, distorted and tinny through the speakers.

Todd blanches. He watches, nauseous and numb, as the amateur torture film rolls on.

◈ ◈ ◈

Dirk wakes up with the morning sun on his face and decides that it's a good sign. Or, at least, he’s going to _make it_ a good sign. He’s going to get his head on straight and do his thing and go back to that vow not to mope around like an arsehole. He showers, dresses, and fixes his hair before Hobbs even stops snoring, and he's shrugging on his yellow jacket and out the door before the sheriff is awake enough to ask questions.

Dirk starts walking.

He hums a half-remembered song and thinks of nothing else, he just wanders and keeps his eyes trained on anything even remotely attention-getting. He spots a sign for a garage sale and squints at the shade of blue, wondering if it's a sign-sign or just a sign. He follows the arrow, trying to find the right house, but in the end he only succeeds in getting lost in the suburbs of Missoula. 

Dirk finds a playground and sits down, shivering in the chill morning air and drawing his jacket in tighter. Thoughts of Todd threaten to encroach on each passing second but he shoves them cheerfully away.

Today is not a day for dwelling. Today is a day for finding.

And, okay, finding is a difficult task when one doesn't know what one is looking for, but the universe has led him this far. Sort of. Probably.

Dirk refuses to consider the possibility that he simply isn't _meant_ to find Todd. He knows deep in his anxious guts that some wheel is turning, and if it doesn't involve reuniting with his best friend--

The thought isn't worth the terror that comes with it, so Dirk pops back to his feet and takes off in a random direction. He walks, and he walks, and he finally decides to take a break by midday. The wind has died down and the sun's warmed up, and Dirk's sweating under his jacket.

He's wandered his way into a small, pleasant-looking shopping center. There's a handful of stores and a small parking lot lined with trees, molten gold in the autumn light, and Dirk narrows his eyes as he considers his options. There's a sushi restaurant--which he finds objectionable, given that they're nowhere near the ocean--a floral shop, a pizza place, a real estate office, and, of course, a Starbucks. 

He glances at his watch and frowns--he hasn't been gone for as long as he thought, and he still has over an hour until he'd promised to be back at the hotel, at the insistence of a very aggressive text message from Farah. She hadn’t been thrilled that he’d taken off on his own, but she had obviously understood because she hadn’t demanded that he return right away.

That, or she was just that sick of him.

Suddenly feeling parched, Dirk decides a blended coffee would be the perfect treat to kick off another hour of walking aimlessly around the less than thrilling city. He makes a beeline for the Starbucks, pausing just outside the glass door to grope for his vibrating phone. He fishes it out, frowns at the blocked number, and steps forward to reach for the door handle.

A man on the way out pulls just short of slamming into him, and Dirk nearly drops his phone in horror when he glances up.

Dirk stutters out a noise, reels back, and screeches _"you!"_ into a familiar, bewildered face.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I feel like the last few chapters have pretty much just been conversations, and I'm sorry if that's gotten a bit tedious. It's kind of a _'I know this might be boring but it feels necessary so we're all just going to have to deal with it'_ thing, but momentum will be picking back up!


	7. For Everything A Reason

“Svlad…?”

Dirk, petrified, watches as Colonel Scott Riggins blinks down at him, both of them stunned into a state of near-awe. Riggins quickly catches his mistake and stutters out, “Dirk, I mean. Dirk, what in the world are you doing here?”

Dirk sucks in an angry breath. “I could ask you the same, but I’m sure you know the answer to your own question. Which would, in fact, answer mine.”

Riggins tilts his head and then seems to parse the implication out. He lets out a slow breath. “Oh. Dirk--I’m not following you. I’m not with Blackwing anymore. That’s not what this is.”

Dirk’s lip curls in disbelief but Riggins’ eyes are sympathetic, and beneath that, something like guilt shines through. His heart beats an uneven rhythm in his throat as he tries to convince himself that they have actually just _coincidentally_ stumbled into one another on the threshold of an overpriced coffee chain.

“I swear to you, Dirk, I was just getting my morning fix.” Riggins lifts his mocha weakly, like he’s presenting evidence, and Dirk eyes it with suspicion.

“What are you doing getting coffee _here_ , Colonel?”

“I live here now, Dirk.” Riggins’ voice is slow, soft, like Dirk’s a spooked horse about to bolt. “Well, not here, exactly, I’m a bit west. I bought some land out near Kelly Island.”

The name means nothing to Dirk but he raises his chin defiantly and doesn’t let it show.

Riggins begins playing with his coffee cup, like he’s nervous. Dirk stares him down and swallows his automatic impulse to run or throw a punch, and instead allows himself to wonder if it’s a Thing--a Meant To Be Thing, a decree from the universe, a _way to Todd_.

He tries to accept the idea of asking this man, the enemy, for help, but he’s got some questions first.

“Tell me,” Dirk begins, hesitant, unsure of what to interrogate the man on first. His mind lands on an unlikely question, one that might throw Riggins off enough to be honest with him. “When I was back at the hospital, after I’d been arrow-shot--well, twice--you were there, weren’t you? You visited. You spoke to me.”

Riggins rubs a rueful hand across the back of his head. “I thought you were asleep.”

“I was. For the most part.”

There’s a long pause in which Riggins raises his eyes to stare somewhere past Dirk. His face looks pinched, like he’s in pain, and Dirk doesn’t know how to feel about that. _Good_ , some vindictive part of him thinks. But--

“I know you don’t believe it, Dirk. And I don’t blame you. But I do care about you. And the others.”

“You’re right about that. I don’t believe it,” Dirk interrupts. Riggins looks at him with obvious regret.

“No one was ever meant to get hurt. I know that’s no consolation now, Dirk, but... I thought you should hear it all the same.”

Dirk turns his head away, overwhelmed, feigning disgust.

“Take care of yourself, Dirk.”

Dirk’s head snaps back around. He watches incredulously as Riggins gives him a long look, like he’s committing Dirk to memory, and then Riggins gives him a sad smile and turns away. 

Dirk can’t believe it. 

Colonel Riggins is _actually_ walking away from him. A week ago Dirk would have liked to have seen nothing more than the man walk straight off of a cliff, but now--

“Wait!”

Riggins pauses and looks back in surprise, already partway across the parking lot, and Dirk takes a shaky breath and trots over. “Wait,” he says again, but with much more reluctance. He doesn’t dare stop to ask himself what the _hell_ he’s doing.

“I--I need your help.”

It takes them a few moments of uneasy staring and almost-asked questions but they agree to sit down to a table to talk, as that would certainly better than standing in the middle of the parking lot. Dirk’s hands quiver when he sits in the uncomfortable metal chair and faces the star of many a nightmare.

Riggins clears his throat and takes a sip from his cup. “Do you… want a coffee, or something?”

Dirk ignores the offer. "Tell me what you know about Project Succubus."

"Succubus?" Riggins barks out in surprise, eyeing Dirk warily. "Why do you ask? Has he... tried to _feed_ from you?"

Dirk swallows down a quiver of anger. "No. But it might have been nice to have gotten a heads-up that that was possible."

To his credit, Riggins looks regretful. "We decided it was unlikely. Unlike Project Incubus, Succubus never targeted other psychics."

That doesn't make Dirk feel any better.

"Why do you want to know about him, Dirk?"

"Just tell me what Blackwing knows."

"Okay," Riggins concedes after a moment, like he’d been trying to test Dirk’s resolve. "We never made direct contact with him, but he originally sprang up on our radar about two months after Martin and Cross did. We classified all three under the name Incubus due to the fact that they all feed on psychic energy. Martin and Cross weren't hard to track down. They've always been wild, flashy. But Succubus was elusive. And much more dangerous."

"How so?" Dirk demands impatiently.

"Well, he was already an adult by the time we caught on to him, and he'd all but perfected his hunting technique. Early intel suggested that he left his victims alive, but shortly before his file hit our desk something changed. I don't know what. But he was suddenly draining people past the point of return--we think the first time might have been an accident, but after that he got a taste for killing."

Dirk's hands go numb at that, but he doesn't interrupt.

"Martin's killed before, too," Riggins acknowledges with an air of reluctance, like it pains him. "He’s had accidents, it was harder to control when he was younger. And he's killed to defend himself, too. But he's never gone out of his way to do it."

"But this Succubus does," Dirk says in a small voice. Riggins bobs his head slowly.

"He's careful. He plans ahead, relying on his intellect and the fact that he doesn't leave any witnesses."

"What's his name? His real name?"

"Well, we don't know. The earliest alias we know is Adrian King, but he was going by Antoine Rook when we nearly caught up to him." Riggins pauses, his eyes distant. "Mr. Priest had gotten close, but--"

"I don't want to talk about Priest.”

"Okay, that’s fine,” Riggins says with surprise. “Well, Succubus gave us the slip sixteen years ago. There have been... incidents, deaths we've attributed to him, but he's meticulous. There was never a real trail to follow."

"So you gave up," Dirk accuses.

The other man looks down at his hands. "I guess you could say that. We kept an eye out, but there was nothing else that we could do. We had a lot of other things to keep track of, and then Blackwing was, for all intents and purposes, shut down.”

Dirk scrubs hard at his face, trying to hold onto the steadying force of his anger, but it slips away between his fingers. "This man, this killer... he took my friend."

"...Your friend? Which--"

Dirk cuts him off with a bitter laugh. "I don't exactly have that many to choose from, as you well know."

Riggins studies his face and seems to come to an understanding. "Todd Brotzman?"

It's Dirk's turn to lower his eyes. He's surprised how much it hurts to hear Todd's name come out of Riggins' mouth. It’s blasphemous. It’s necessary. 

"Dirk, you're saying he abducted Todd Brotzman?" 

"Yes," Dirk says in a near whisper. Riggins falls back against the backrest of his chair, brow furrowed. 

"Has Succubus--"

"Can we please stop calling him that? It makes him sound like some sort of, some sort of monster. I don’t--”

"Alright. Rook, then, let’s say. Has Rook contacted you?"

"Contacted me? No. Why would he?"

"Well," the colonel answers, tasting each word as though to test it for offense. "I assumed he would want to make a trade."

Dirk blinks rapid-fire. "Me for Todd?"

"Yes, if he's caught on to whatever it is that draws the Rowdy Three to you--"

"No. He hasn't--he hasn't contacted me, but I don't know that he could if he wanted to."

Riggins looks unconvinced. "Maybe not. But knowing Rook like I do, he was likely watching you for a while before he made his move. If he really wanted to, he could have contacted you by now."

"He hasn't."

"Okay." Riggins rubs the back of his neck. "Is there any reason he might want your friend?"

"To feed from, I assume." Saying it out loud makes him feel lightheaded with grief.

"Is that why you're here, in Spokane? You're pursuing him?"

Dirk gives a stiff nod, but Riggins shakes his head. "That's not his style. He wouldn't have bothered to take your friend anywhere. He would have insinuated himself into Todd's life and left once he'd gotten what he wanted."

Dirk says nothing, but Riggins' eyes pop wide with realization. "Todd Brotzman. I remember now. That disease, the one that runs in his family--"

"Pararibulitis--"

"Yes. We confiscated the police report from Seattle PD. They'd interviewed his parents by phone after Patrick Spring was murdered. It's certainly possible that that could have something to do with it, but the report said he'd been treated for it."

Dirk winces, and Riggins zeroes in on his unease. "He wasn't?"

"He never had it. Not then." Dirk loathes to share anything about Todd, but if it was the only way to pursue a lead to finding him... "He had lied to his family about having it, but then he really did begin to have symptoms."

"When was this?"

"A couple of months ago. But how could this Rook man have known that, if even the CIA didn't?"

Riggins' eyes are dark with alarm. "I can't answer that, but..."

"But?"

"Look, Dirk. I'm _retired_ now. I'm no longer privy to Blackwing's information."

"But?" Dirk prompts impatiently.

"...But I might have a contact. A young agent I recruited shortly before I left. She seemed to have her head on straight."

"Not sure I trust you to be the best judge of that," Dirk snarks.

Riggins inclines his head, acknowledging the statement, but then goes on as if he hadn’t heard. "She’s trustworthy, with a good heart. She might be willing to answer some questions. She might have a lead, you just have to trust me."

Dirk’s heart starts pounding again at that, but he’s not sure if from excitement or terror.

◈ ◈ ◈

When the number for Dirk’s burner phone had popped up on her screen, Farah had been expecting the worst. He hadn’t answered any of her texts over the last hour or the two calls she’d tried to put through, so she’d given herself some wiggle room with her temper when she’d answered and demanded to know where he was.

A vague, nervous invitation to lunch had come as a surprise, and as she pulls into the specified parking lot her GPS had directed her toward, she suddenly understands why. 

Farah gets out of the car and slams the door a bit harder than necessary, and she hears Hobbs quietly close the passenger door and follow suit. She approaches Dirk and the balding man standing beside him with her back straight; her mind is an angry hive of questions and she keeps her mouth shut to keep them in. 

Predictably, Dirk immediately quails under her furious scrutiny and begins stammering out a greeting. The would-be stranger regards her warily, eyeing the steady hand she keeps perched on her sidearm. Farah recognizes him from her Blackwing research.

“Scott Riggins,” she accuses.

“Farah Black,” the man replies, near meek in his acknowledgement. 

“Dirk--”

“Farah--listen, this isn’t--I didn’t reach out to him, _I swear_ \--”

“Sherlock Hobbs,” Hobbs says, stepping forward and extending his hand, which Riggins takes immediately and with relief. 

“Scott,” Riggins says. 

Farah narrows her eyes at the handshake but says nothing, and Dirk’s quick to fill the empty space. It takes Farah a moment to work out the story that he spews out, the facts interjected with a mixture of apologizes and expressions of exaggerated surprise. 

“So, I thought that we should sit down like civilized adults,” Dirk concludes. 

“...To lunch,” Farah deadpans. She watches as his eyes jump nervously between her and Riggins, who has a look of discrete concern on his face.

“Yes, well--Farah, where’s Tina?”

Farah could hit him for revealing that their party was one short. “She wasn’t hungry,” she grits out instead. 

“Oh.” 

Farah’s halfway through a prayer for patience when Hobbs glances over at the restaurant, nodding with approval. 

Riggins follows his gaze. “Well--should we head in? Better off hashing this out over a meal.”

Farah’s not so sure about that, but she admits, silently to herself, that she _is_ feeling exposed standing on the on the sidewalk of an unfamiliar town in broad daylight.

“Dirk, did you pick this place?” she asks suddenly.

“What?”

“Did you pick this restaurant?”

Dirk blinks, purses his lips as if to think back, and nods. 

“Okay,” Farah says, and when she meets Riggins’ eyes she knows that he understands the purpose of the question. He has the grace to look unperturbed by the implication. Farah’s eyes track the man as he turns and leads the way, Dirk following a few steps behind, but Farah hangs back and grabs onto Hobbs' sleeve. Dirk, sensing that no one’s following behind him, turns to give her a puzzled look, but she only smiles and nods her head. His face is lined with worry, but he complies with her unspoken command and goes inside all the same.

"What do you think?" Farah asks, watching as the two head through the glass doors and pause by the hostess stand.

"Of what--which thing? Because I have to say, Farah, there's... there's a lot going on here and I’m grasping maybe fifty percent of it."

Farah can concede that point, and she does with a half-smile. "What do you think of Colonel Riggins?"

"Ah."

Farah waits him out. He bobs his head, then tilts it, then scratches the back of his neck. She's a little concerned that he hasn't been paying much attention and is now scrambling for an answer, but then she notices the gravity in his gaze as he stares through the wide glass windows where Dirk and Riggins have selected a booth.

"Hard to say from one conversation, but he seems... concerned. Like, I think maybe he knows a bit more about what's going on than he says, you know? But I think he does really want to help Dirk."

"What makes you say that?"

Hobbs once again takes his time answering. "There's something about his eyes, I think. So the man's either an accomplished actor or he really does care about Dirk. Sounds like they have a complicated history."

"Complicated is a good word for it."

"He doesn't seem like a bad guy."

"Sounds like you're saying we should trust him."

"Trust him? Well." Hobbs scrunches up one side of his mouth, considering carefully. "Trust might be taking it a bit far. But I think we should hear him out. Take what he says with a grain of salt, mind you, but even if he's not being entirely truthful I think we'll learn something either way."

Farah nods, appreciating the unexpected wisdom and trying not to feel too guilty about underestimating Hobbs--it's been a while since she's seen him, and in that time she'd apparently forgotten that he’s a lot more observant than he seems.

"That makes sense," she says.

"Actually, he reminds me a bit of my cousin, Brad."

Farah arches an eyebrow delicately, also suddenly reminded of Hobbs' penchant for tangents.

"Brad's military, you see. The patriot type. Got in over his head but he was just trying to do the right thing." Hobbs smiles down at her. "Reminds me of this Riggins fellow."

"I know the type well," she replies by way of agreement.

"That's right, Tina said your family was military."

"Some of them. And you're right, Riggins does have that... vibe. I'm not saying that excuses what he's done--and I'm sure I don't even know the half of it--but aside from all of that, it's entirely possible that Dirk was _meant_ to meet him here."

Said detective throws her a plaintive glance from inside the restaurant, and she decides that maybe they've left him alone long enough.

"Thanks, Sherlock. I appreciate your insight."

"Anytime," he says, "happy to be of service."

She leads the way into the restaurant, pausing only to smile politely at the expectant hostess before making a beeline to Dirk and Riggins' table. She notices that Riggins has his head bowed and his hands on the table, like he's trying his best not to be intimidating, but Dirk is clearly not swayed by the gesture. Farah sits down next to him and takes in his ashy complexion and the beads of sweat on his forehead.

"Everything alright?" she asks.

Dirk nods. "Yes, Farah, we were just discussing the menu."

She blinks in surprise--he sounds calmer than he looks, and she knows he's not a very good liar. She peers at him a bit more closely, much to his obvious apprehension, but she's interrupted by a teenager in an oversized uniform asking for their orders.

Riggins orders a cheap steak and Dirk predictable asks for a bacon cheeseburger. Farah only glances at the menu before ordering the first pasta dish she finds, and Hobbs earns several stares of alarm when he requests the fish and chips.

"What?" the sheriff asks, looking at each of them with bemusement.

"Fish? Really?" Dirk asks with no small hint of judgement in his voice. "We’re nowhere remotely near the ocean."

Hobbs rumbles out a short laugh. "As a Montanian, I just say, you take what seafood you can get. But it's really not that bad."

Dirk pulls a pinched expression, one that Todd's nicknamed his 'pissy face', and Farah's stomach aches at the sudden reminder of their missing friend. She'd almost escaped the thought of his plight for a solid two minutes.

She wants to get that conversation started but Hobbs startles and mutters under his breath, pulling his cell phone out of his pocket and frowning at it. He tucks it away again immediately and only shrugs when Farah raises her eyebrows in question.

The rest of the wait for their food is uncomfortable. 

Riggins makes several attempts at levity, but Dirk only narrows his eyes and sweats, prompting Hobbs to crack a few 'dad jokes'--as Todd would have said, Farah thinks with a pang--which earns an easy laugh from Riggins every time. The two men clearly get along well, and Farah's not sure what to make of that. She glances at Dirk, hoping to get a clue as to his thoughts on the matter, but he's looking a bit pink and glassy-eyed. She suddenly resists the urge to reach out and test his forehead for fever.

"So," Dirk starts, but he's immediately interrupted by the reappearance of their teenaged waiter and a puffy-faced co-worker; they deposit the four platters onto the table and the teen loiters to try to make small-talk, and Hobbs only refrains from engaging with him when Farah sends him a sharp look. The waiter walks away, dejected, likely grieving an opportunity to butter them up for a better tip.

For one reason or another, the group spends the first five minutes of the meal pretending that they're just four friends out for a pleasant lunch together, bringing up only the quality of the restaurant or the cleanliness of their silverware. It’s not a bad charade, but Farah's nerves are starting to fray.

"Colonel," she beings, opting for a respectful start. " I guess I should thank you, for taking the time to meet with us."

"Of course," he replies, wiping his mouth with the cheap napkin. She tries not to be distracted by the tiny piece of white lint left behind on his mustache. "I'm glad to be of any help that I can be."

"And why is that?" she asks, near sweet despite the challenge in the words. His grimace is nearly invisible, but her sharp eyes catch it and file it away.

"I've made mistakes." Riggins risks a glance at Dirk, who is watching closely and looking uncertain. "I let my ambition get in the way of my humanity. I retired from Blackwing, but... it might be more accurate to say that I was forced out."

Farah raises her eyebrows as a prompt to continue, but Riggins struggles with the words. She reads the shame in his eyes and doesn't know what to do with it.

"They took Blackwing away from me, gave it to my mentee. A young man who was talented with ops but not quite--well, I guess you'd say he wasn't 'all there upstairs'. But I think he had a good heart, under it all. He just wasn't smart enough to realize it."

Dirk makes a soft noise of realization, earning three pairs of eyes. His own gaze is locked down on his half eaten burger. "He saved my life. Back at Blackwing. He saved a lot of lives that day, actually, in a way."

"I read the report." Riggins' voice is soft as he regards Dirk from across the table.

Hobbs glances between them, confused, and Riggins pauses to fill in the details. "My mentee, his name was Hugo Friedkin. He was given command of Blackwing after I was dismissed from the project. He reinstated the effort to round up and study the psychics--that is, the subjects."

Hobbs glances at Dirk. Farah thinks he looks a bit angry on the detective's behalf, but mostly he just looks sad.

"Hugo brought in an outsider for help, a man originally misclassified as a subject. He took advantage of Hugo's... intellectual deficiencies, and he wound up rising through the ranks of Blackwing in an astonishingly short amount of time. I never met him myself."

"And this man’s name--what was it?" Dirk asks, sounding faint. Farah lays a hand on his knee for comfort, and he places his own cold hand over hers and squeezes. "When I was in Blackwing trying to get Francis out, a man was trying to stop me. Your apprentice called him 'Ken'."

"Ken Adams," Riggins confirms. “That’s right.”

"I'd seen him once before. At Patrick Spring's mansion."

Riggins' eyes bulge in surprise, looking at Farah for confirmation, and she nods slowly. She's heard this story before, but she hadn’t seen this Ken person in all the chaos.

"He shot me in the leg in an attempt to prevent me from leaving Blackwing," Dirk informs Riggins. "But your mentee stopped him. He allowed me to escape with Mona and Francis."

“Is he the man in charge now?” Hobbs interrupts. “This Ken guy?”

Riggins nods, looking troubled. “In charge of Blackwing itself, last I heard, but he’s just the man on the ground. The real person in charge is a woman named Wilson.”

Dirk frowns and sends Farah a glance, but she can only shrug helplessly. “Never heard of her,” she says, looking back to Riggins. “What can you tell us about this Wilson?”

“Not much, I’m afraid. I’ve only met with her a handful of times. She took over not long before my forced retirement. But if I had to describe her--I guess I’d say that she’s stern, and smart as a whip, and she’s willing to cut throats if it means completing the objective.”

Farah’s not fond of that particular combination of things in a potential enemy. 

“Actually,” Riggins says with something like realization. “I think I’d use those words to describe Ken Adams as well.”

“You said you’ve never met him,” Farah reminds him, voice sharp with suspicion.

“I haven’t met him. But I still have connections, and I’ve heard stories.”

“That new recruit you were speaking of?” Dirk asks, though he sounds a bit strained.

“Yes. She and a few others who aren’t crazy about the direction the CIA’s taking Blackwing.”

Farah absolutely does not like the admission that Riggins is still in touch with his former colleagues, but she holds off on accusations and dramatic storm-outs. The fact that he was _openly admitting it_ … either it was a trap, he was a fool, or he didn’t see the connections as being a threat to them.

Or maybe it was something else, something Farah couldn’t divine without an interrogation.

“How can she help us?” Dirk asks. “You said she could help.”

“I don’t know for sure. But it might be worth a try. If Blackwing has a trail on Succubus, or your friend Todd, she might be able to give us a heads up. Maybe we can get there first.”

Farah frowns, mulling that over, and she’s about to launch into a four-part series of questions when Hobbs jumps, fishes his cell phone out of his pocket, and then wiggles out of the booth. 

“Sorry.” He’s whispering for some reason. “My brother again. I’ll be right back.”

Hobbs shuffles out of the restaurant and an awkward silence rushes in to fill his space. Riggins glances nonchalantly around at the outdated decor and Farah stares him down. Dirk, to her knowledge, is spacing out. Farah’s tempted to elbow him in the ribs to help him focus, but then Hobbs comes rushing back in and Farah’s on her feet before she thinks twice, frightened by the look on the sheriff’s face.

“What’s wrong?”

“My brother--he’s been in an accident,” Hobbs pants, his eyes huge in his pale face. Dirk makes a soft noise of alarm but Farah ignores him, opting instead to lay a hand on Hobbs’ arm. 

“Is he okay?”

“I don’t know, I don’t know.”

“Okay--just breathe,” Farah instructs, but her stomach fills with an icy dread. “Just breathe, Sherlock.”

“I need to go,” he says with regret. “I’m sorry--”

“No,” Dirk interrupts, sliding out of the booth and standing a little unsteadily. “Don’t apologize. It’s family.”

Farah frowns at the nearly robotic clip to Dirk’s voice, the determined look in his eye, but she doesn’t have time to decipher it. Hobbs nods, looking a bit calmer, then his face abruptly pinches with distress again. “He’s out in Omaha. I’ll need to fly out--”

“Take the car. Get yourself to the airport,” Farah says. It pains her to give up their vehicle but--

“I’ll drive you.”

Farah, Hobbs, and Dirk turn in nearly perfect synchronization to Riggins, who is standing quietly behind them. Farah distractedly notices a faint on his shirt. 

“I’ll drive you to the airport,” he clarifies at their blank stares. “It’s not that far out of the way for me.”

Alarm bells sound in Farah’s head but Hobbs is already gushing gratitude and she can’t think of a better solution. She can’t strand herself and Dirk without a car, and she sure as hell can’t leave Dirk with Riggins around, but to trust a relatively-unsuspecting Hobbs with a potential danger like the colonel--

“No,” she says. “No, we’ll drop you off at the airport, Hobbs.”

Riggins looks surprised but not disappointed, which Farah finds interesting. Dirk’s shaking his head.

“No, I think--I think it’s better if you go with him,” Dirk tells Hobbs, who glances between them all with apprehension. Farah stares, ready to fight Dirk on the point, but he turns his wide eyes in her direction and she abruptly understands.

“Okay,” she breathes out, and then she’s watching Riggins lead Hobbs out to his car. She sits heavily back down on the booth, blinking as they disappear into a powder blue sedan, and she barely registers it when Dirk sits down across from her. 

“I don’t feel… great,” he informs her. “Physically or mentally. But mostly physically, surprisingly.”

Farah turns her head and notes the high flush on his cheeks. 

“Why?” she asks, then shakes her head and elaborates. “Why couldn’t we take Hobbs ourselves?”

Dirk looks haunted. “That’s just the way it is,” he murmurs, hoarse and trembling. “The way it must be.”

“That’s… ominous.”

“It’s true.” 

“You don’t know--”

“It has to be this way, Farah.”

“You have a hunch?” she asks. Dirk shakes his head and stares out over the parking lot. 

“More than a hunch,” he whispers to the window. “A certainty. It’s what the universe _wants_ \--it tried to summon him away before, with the first call, and he ignored it. And now he’s brother’s hurt. It can’t be ignored. It would only get worse if we tried to fight it.”

“Dirk, that sounds--” she starts to protest, but her voice dries up. It hadn’t even crossed her mind to offer to drive Hobbs, not at first, and the moment she had suggested it... it had felt _wrong_. 

“Is he going to be okay?” she asks, minutes later, her chest tight with anxiety.

“He has to be.” Dirk’s voice is faint and tranced. Farah abruptly realizes that he’s not talking about Hobbs’ brother. “He has to be.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's terrifying to me that it's been more than a month since I last updated. Unfortunately some family stuff came up and I haven't had the time to write, much less edit it into something presentable (which isn't to say that I think this is all that presentable lmao--if this chapter feels choppy it's because I've had to amputate parts that weren't strictly necessary to the plot). 
> 
> I'm not sure if I'll be able to update as consistently as before, but I'm hoping to post at least one or two chapters a month from here on out. For those of you who have been waiting: I'm sorry and also thank you for sticking with me! And, for what it's worth, all of this story is planned out and some of the rest of it is already drafted. I have no intention of abandoning this fic, it's just going to take longer than I thought to get it all out.
> 
> Also I just realized that the last chapter ended with a sort-of cliffhanger and holy shit that was not intentionally drawn out! Sorry guys!
> 
> (Also also, I'll be replying to comments on the past chapter just as soon as I can!)


	8. The Wiseman

It’s dark and cool in the hotel room but Dirk’s burning up. 

He has uneasy blood and it simmers under his skin, keeping him awake and on edge as shadows stretch across the room, broken only by headlights of an occasional passing car. 

He lies awake for hours. 

Eventually even the cars stop passing and he’s left to track the progress of a waning moon by the trail it takes across the ceiling. In his mind he's drawing greedily from a familiar reel of memories, but it isn’t long before his thoughts blur at the edges and he can’t always keep his focus on the fantasy of an emotional reunion with Todd. Dirk slips in and out of the waking dream, drawn from his mind-movie and back into his body when fever chills creep in and make him ache.

He wonders if falling ill is part of The Design. Maybe they’d meet a nice pharmacist who would lead them to horse that would lead to a map that would lead them to a house that would lead them to Todd. Maybe it was meant to be.

Or maybe he was running himself into the ground and paying the price.

Dirk contemplates that and focuses his gaze, and the light-dappled ceiling stares back as if with dozens of sets of yellow eyes. He tries to ignore the uncomfortable tickle in the back of his throat because it makes him feel thirsty, and that makes him think of Todd--was he thirsty? Was he tired, ill, in pain? Dirk’s halfway to delirious and hopes that the fever is somehow the universe’s way of sharing the burden of Todd’s suffering, if he even was suffering, which Dirk hopes he’s not but--

Dirk loses the train of thought. He turns to face the window and watches, transfixed, as a weak-willed breeze stirs the curtains tucked away at the edges. Something about the window triggers a memory, and he plays back the moment Todd had a shoe thrown at him. He remembers the shock of Todd’s slap and it makes him bark out a hoarse laugh.

Someone stirs on the next bed and Dirk swallows down his amusement. He’d forgotten he wasn’t alone, and the realization brings the situation back to the forefront of his thoughts. But then the curtains stir again and abruptly he thinks of Priest, thinks maybe the man is creeping somewhere out there in the dark beyond the hideous striped fabric and the cheap screen.

He had nearly forgotten about Blackwing and that was a dangerous mistake to make. He watches the window, wide-eyed and afraid, until his eyelids droop shut of their own volition.

◈ ◈ ◈

Todd’s about ten different kinds of tired, but instead of conserving his strength in sleep he lies awake and picks through his regrets. There’s a lot to choose from, but the ones that keep popping up are the ones that revolve around the ways in which he’s disappointed Dirk.

A part of him thinks it’s strange that Amanda doesn’t play a more central role in his slideshow of guilt. He wonders if maybe Rook had gotten to him, if maybe Todd does believe that Amanda was angry enough to turn on him. 

_Would it even be ‘turning’ on me?_ he wonders as he lies half on the mattress, sprawling one arm and his legs out over the cold concrete, too exhausted to even get comfortable. 

He had turned on Amanda first, after all. In a way. In all the ways that mattered. Her anger was fair, and certainly deserved, and somehow it diminished the guilt because it felt like she was fighting back--that she had the _ability_ to fight back.

But Dirk. 

Todd thinks of a street corner in Seattle, of Dirk’s yellow jacket under a street light and the haunted expression he’d worn when Todd had dismissed him on the night of Dorian’s death. He had thrown Dirk’s concern and his desperate loneliness back in his face, and Todd understands now what he couldn't have known then--the reason for the distance in Dirk’s eyes and his easy surrender to disappointment. 

Todd presses his raw eyes closed, as if he could squeeze the image from them. His stomach churns with the knowledge that there isn't going to be time for an apology. He's going to die in a lonely, dirty room with the picture of Dirk's melancholy branded into his mind.

"Dirk," he says aloud to the empty room, and the word hangs tangible in the crowded air. His voice is ragged, a wounded thing, but he's far enough away from himself that hearing even his own voice is a comfort--he hasn’t even seen the spider for a while, so he's all that he has left. He's going to die in this room, he's going to die _he's going to die_ \--

"I'm sorry," he gasps out, and he's too far gone to puzzle out how he finds the strength to say it. "I'm sorry."

He's going to die and he'd rather it be alone. It's as much as he deserves. A noiseless, unfussy death--he hasn't earned anything better, but he doesn't think he deserves the torment that Rook has waiting for him, either. To die now, in a quiet moment of clarity, was the fitting and best possible outcome.

Wasn't it?

He opens his eyes with effort, the afterburn of Dirk's disappointed expression seared into the core of him. Todd abruptly realizes that he’s glad Dirk's not psychic. If he could be privy to Todd’s thoughts now he would probably be devastated by Todd’s hopelessness, his spinelessness. 

Todd wonders if it's selfish to accept that he means that much to someone else. 

He thinks not, because there's no rush of relief, only the weight of a burden, a connection--a single thread tying him to the world. Because if he died Amanda would be upset, but she would get over it. Farah would blame herself, just as she had with Patrick Spring, but she'd find a way to bury it down and move on again.

But Dirk?

Memories seep up, sticky-wet and heavy in his mind, and he browses leisurely through the moments--Dirk decorated in pink bandages; Dirk rolling out of a car trunk and throwing his arms into the air in triumph; Dirk crawling into his window, bright-eyed with the certainty that he had finally, finally found a friend. Dirk staring in blank horror in a Bergsberg jail cell as Todd explained that his bad karma had finally come calling. 

Todd's throat works compulsively, his mind sprawling from past to future--Dirk finding his best friend, his _first_ friend, dead on a dirty mattress. 

Todd wishes he had done it already. He wishes that he'd worked up the strength to drag himself into the bathroom and find something sharp and drag it across a vulnerable vein, because it would have been easier than suddenly realizing that he has to _try_. 

He's got to live on. He’s got to scratch and claw for every moment, because if there's even a chance to make it out he has to take it. 

Anything less would be a betrayal, and he’s not that cruel anymore. 

Todd fights down a spasm and couldn't have said if it’s a sob or a laugh. He stares up at the discolored ceiling and feels the itch of dry sweat on his skin and he settles his thoughts on one last image: Dirk, tie tucked into his shirt, filthy but smiling and leaning on that damn shovel, positively glowing in the amber headlights of some nameless chef’s Jeep.

His memory helpfully supplies the words, once declared in a lilting proclamation in the middle of the night.

"Just another trap room," Todd breathes out. 

He closes his eyes and saves his strength.

◈ ◈ ◈

Dirk skims along the surface of consciousness. He's adrift, burning with fever, and he reluctantly comes into wakefulness only to stumble into an unfamiliar bathroom and back to bed, or to swallow down pills and apple juice administered by too-warm hands. It's always a relief to sink back into the scratchy sheets because he knows that there's some unpleasant thing waiting just around the corner, but he can ignore in the blackness of sleep.

Some part of him knows that Farah is nearby. Her voice filters through sometimes, and increasingly often it’s joined by others. The conversations always elude him but individual words sometimes slide through and stick with him, though he can't make much sense of any of it. 

He dreams of the sea and wakes with the sun in his eyes, and hears his own name whisper-hissed across the room. He spasms himself up into a sitting position. Someone is trying to get his attention, trying to warn him--

"Todd?" he asks, hoarse and blinded by sunlight.

A hush falls over the room and Dirk realizes his mistake when Farah appears in front of him. She lays a cool hand across his forehead and he feels his stomach sink with dread. Todd was still gone. No one had been calling for him--Farah, Tina, and Riggins had been arguing about something in the half-kitchen of the hotel room.

Dirk blinks and moves away from Farah's hand to look around the unfamiliar space.

"Where are we?" he asks her, raising a hand to rub at his aching throat. Farah's frowning with concern, then she's handing him a miniature bottle of water.

"Idaho."

"Oh."

"We thought it was best not to stay in one place too long." Farah chews the inside of her lip. "We headed east, just a little bit. Is that... okay?"

Dirk's momentarily thrown by the question. "I don't know," he admits. "It doesn't feel wrong."

"Well, 'not wrong' is good enough for me," Riggins says with some satisfaction, and Dirk sends him an unpleasant look. "I'm glad to see you're feeling better."

Dirk looks at Tina, who's biting her nails, and then at Farah, who is already watching him back. "You've been pretty sick, Dirk."

"Yes. That does make sense, given that it feels I've been gargling with gravel."

"You've been more or less unconscious for more than thirty six hours."

"Yeah, we were just trying to figure out if we should take you to the ER, man," Tina interjects.

"I'm glad it didn't come to that." Farah's voice is soft in a way that Dirk's heard before, but he's never really heard it directed at him. "Seems like your fever's broken. How do you feel?"

Dirk winces, angling his face away from the window so that the light's not shining in his face. "Head hurts," he replies, and Farah's on her feet and closing the curtain before the last syllable falls. "Thank you, Farah."

Tina clicks on a little lamp that's near the couch, which has definitely seen better days.

"Well, this is a bit of a downgrade from _Paradise_ ," he jokes. That manages to draw a small smile from everyone, but the room still feels heavy. Tense. He looks back at Farah and searches her face for clues.

"Are you hungry?" she asks instead of answering the clear question in his eyes. Dirk opens his mouth to say 'not really' but she barrels on. "You and I can go grab something, the fresh air will do you good."

It's hardly subtle, she may as well have shouted _we need to talk away from the outsider_ , but when Dirk risks a nervous glance at Riggins he doesn't seem offended. 

"Okay," he agrees.

From there it's only a short debate between chinese and pizza, with Dirk voting an emphatic _no_ on the latter--the last time he'd eaten one had been with Todd and he wouldn't eat another without him.

"Chinese it is," Tina says dryly as Dirk finishes up an impromptu bullshit monologue on why pizza was terrible hotel food.

Farah looks annoyed. Dirk knows she's taken his excuse at face value and he's not sure if he should be relieved or disappointed--pizza was, after all, obviously delightful hotel food and she should know better than to assume he'd ever--

Farah drags him out of the hotel room. Well, he reflects as he's marched down the open walkway, the _motel_ , actually. A pretty rundown one, too.

Dirk spares Farah his internal running commentary on their overnight abode and is rewarded when she gently helps him into the passenger seat. He's not feeling that ill, not at the moment anyway, but he's pleased at the nurturing gesture.

Farah climbs into the driver's seat and starts up the car. She waits until they've pulled out of the lot to explain their predicament.

◈ ◈ ◈

"Well," Dirk says after several long minutes of silence. "I think..."

Farah tries to wait him out but she loses her patience quickly enough. They've been parked in the lot of ' Green China' for almost five minutes and she'd finished explaining the dilemma between ditching Riggins and relying on him for almost ten.

"What? What do you think?"

Dirk chews his lip. "What do _you_ think?"

Farah takes a breath and closes her eyes. Of course he’d deflect the question back at her. "I don't know Riggins, not like you do. I think your opinion matters more, Dirk."

"Well. I've spent the last few days in a coma--"

"It was not a coma--"

"--so I think maybe you've gotten a better sense of what's in it for him. Plus, you're a great judge of character, Farah."

She's not so sure about that, given her present company, given the present state of her life.

"He seems... like he wants to be helpful," she says after a moment. "I don't know what's in it for him--if he is still working for Blackwing I don't know why he would wait to bring us in."

Dirk lowers his eyes thoughtfully. "Does he have anything to gain by lying to us?"

"I don't know. Maybe. He may be trying to gain our trust. But to what end... I don't know."

"Is he, like, tracking us? Reporting where we are back to Blackwing?"

"I've taken his phone and searched him for obvious devices."

"Wonderful thinking, Farah," he says warmly, and that earns a reluctant half-smile from her.

"Also, I'm not sure what he'd gain from that. And, if he is still a Blackwing agent, that would imply that he knew he'd find us in Spokane."

Dirk blinks and then nods. "And if they already knew where we were..."

"There'd be no reason to make contact. He had no way of knowing how we would react. We've gone to ground and evaded the CIA before, I'm not sure they'd risk us trying to get away if they already had an eye on us."

"True." Dirk sounds a bit strained and she glances over to observe him twisting his hands together.

"What does your gut tell you?" she asks kindly.

"To run. But--I don't know. It's complicated."

Farah nods.

"And I think you're right--Riggins has always been more of the 'watch from the shadows’ type. I don't think he'd be so careless as to directly interfere without good reason. And I can’t imagine what reason that would be."

"So, does that mean--"

"That we should trust him? No." Dirk shakes his head, his voice bitter. "Never. But if we can make use of him, if it's a way to Todd..."

The rest goes unsaid. Farah lays a hand on his shoulder, and hesitates before opening her mouth again. “Riggins was really worried about you, you know.”

Dirk blinks at her, perplexed.

“He hardly left your side when you were sick. Which meant I couldn’t leave your side. But he was genuinely worried, Dirk.”

“...And why are you telling me this, Farah?”

Farah thinks it over with a frown. “I don’t know. I thought maybe you would want to know.”

Dirk shakes his head, prepared to argue, but in the end he only clears his throat and offers a weak smile before climbing out of the car.

◈ ◈ ◈

They eat lunch in near silence. Tina makes a few attempts at conversation but only Riggins is willing to engage with her, and Farah shoots him hard looks whenever he opens his mouth so Tina’s at a bit of a loss.

Dirk’s uncharacteristically quiet, and he’s only picking at his chow mein but Tina thinks he looks okay. Better than before. Probably better than he’s been since their reunion back in Montana, and she’s left to wonder if he’s feeling more optimistic with Riggins around, even if Dirk doesn’t like him.

It had been decided that Riggins would be permitted to call his Blackwing contact, but the phone would be on speaker and they would all be in the room. Tina reflects on Farah’s less-that-ambiguous threat of violence should he betray them, and she puts a forkful of orange chicken in her mouth and stares at Riggins from the corner of her eye. 

She’s glad it hadn’t been up to her to decide on his trustworthiness, and she can’t help but feel a pang of sympathy for the man. He’d dropped by unannounced shortly after Dirk had fallen ill and Farah had held him at gunpoint for a three hour interrogation. He hadn’t been allowed to leave their sight except to use the restroom since then.

 _He doesn’t seem upset about it, though,_ she thinks. Studying him in her peripheral vision, she thinks he even looks content. He glances up at her, smiles, and then checks his watch.

“Almost time,” he comments. 

Tina frowns and glances at Farah, who has an intense look of suspicion on her face. She’d allowed Riggins to try to call his contact earlier, but he’d been forced to leave a message; he’d requested that she call back exactly an hour later. 

Tina licks her lips, twitchy with nerves. She wishes Hobbs hadn’t had to leave.

They all jump when two cell phones simultaneously ring out. Tina scrambles to get hers out of her pocket and she stares down in surprise at Hobbs’ grinning face. She looks up, near panicked, as Riggins swipes the phone Farah had given him back and answers. She looks to Farah next, and she mouths, ‘Hobbs’; Farah only hesitates for a moment before gesturing toward the door. 

Tina knocks her chair over in her haste to answer the phone and make it outside.

“Hobbs? Hobbs is that you?” she barks into the device. She nearly melts with relief against the side of the building when Hobbs’ familiar laugh rumbles through the speaker.

 _“It’s me, Tina,”_ he confirms.

“Oh my god, it’s about time! What the hell, Hobbs? Why haven’t you called? Why didn’t you answer my calls? We’ve been worried sick!”

_“Well, I did try, let me tell you. You guys must be having some sort of cell phone tower black out, because I’ve been trying to reach you for days.”_

“You have?”

_“Sure have. You okay?”_

“I’m okay. Are you okay?”

_“Sure am.”_

“Good, good. That’s--whew, that’s good, Hobbs. How is your brother? Oh my god, is he okay?”

Hobbs laughs again. _“He’s fine! Would you believe that there was some sort of mix up? The nurses must have confused him for another patient, because he got injured all right, but it’s just a broken leg. Could you believe that? I rushed all the way out here and all that.”_

“Oh, uh, that’s good though, right?”

_“Yeah it’s good!”_

“Pretty weird, though,” Tina says, feeling the Chinese food sit uneasily in her stomach. “Pretty weird. Thank goodness he’s alright. Are you--Hobbs are you on your way back?”

_“Not yet. I tried booking a flight but everything from Omaha to Spokane has been booked, apparently for days now.”_

“Uh, that’s…”

_“Super weird, right?”_

“Right.”

_“Well, I’m planning on flying into Montana and then driving back over, but I needed to see where you bunch were at.”_

“Yeah, that makes sense, man,” Tina sighs, relieved to hear that there’s a plan. “We’re in Idaho now, not far across the border from Washington.”

_“What town? Is there an airport?”_

“Uh, Port something. I don’t think there’s an airport but, like, I’ll ask Farah.”

_“How are they holding up? Any luck with the, uh, search?”_

“I don’t think so, but it’s also not terrible? I guess?”

_“Huh.”_

“Actually, I should probably, like, head back inside. That Riggins guy is talking to his Blackwing person, I should probably be in there.”

_“Oh, yeah, sounds important.”_

“I’m glad you’re okay, though! Shit, you scared the shit out of me,” she admits, and she’s not even a little bit ashamed that she’s tearing up a bit. “Glad your brother’s okay too, tell him I say hi. Oh--and sign his cast for me!”

 _“Will do!”_ Hobbs laughs. _“Take care of yourself, T. I’ll--”_

Tina frowns and pulls the phone away from her ear, staring down at the blinking screen. The call had dropped. She considers trying to call him back but figures the important stuff got said. Tucking the phone back into her pocket, she delicately opens the motel door and tiptoes back inside. 

Her three companions look up and Dirk greets her with an uncertain smile. She notes that Riggins isn’t on the phone anymore either.

“How’s Hobbs? Is he okay?” Farah asks, her voice tight with anxiety.

“Yeah, yeah he’s good, no worries. His brother’s going to be okay, too.”

“Thank goodness,” Dirk says, relaxing into his chair. 

“So, uh, what happened with the…” she gestures at Riggins and moves to sit on the bed. Riggins smiles at her, amused and apparently at ease. Farah is clearly frustrated, though, and Tina’s not sure what to make of that.

“Well--” Riggins starts, but Dirk interrupts with surprising enthusiasm.

“Well! Apparently there was some sort of decoy trail set up by this terrible Rook man, and Blackwing spent quite a bit of time chasing their own tails down there.”

Farah nods, staring openly at Riggins as if to decipher the truth of the situation. “But they’ve figured it out and they’re heading back up to Seattle, and beyond. Which is not good.”

“But they don’t know where we are, right? They don’t know to look in, like, Idaho?” Tina asks.

“No, not yet,” Dirk replies. “We’ve got a head start. Only… this woman said that she thinks they have a lead on the Rowdy Three.”

“Shit.”

“Nothing’s certain but--”

“But we’re going to have to warn Amanda to stay away. We can’t have her leading Blackwing right to us.”

“Yeah, that makes sense.” Tina rubs her neck and tries to fight down a bubble of anxiety. “So--what now?”

A silence swells up. Dirk’s eagerness deflates a bit and he look to Farah for guidance, but she’s busy glaring at the side of Riggins’ head. 

“My friend wasn’t able to tell us anything about Todd. They don’t know where Project Succubus is, he’s too good at covering his tracks. But that’s not necessarily a bad thing. The last thing we want is Blackwing getting ahead of us and setting up an ambush.”

“Yeah… that makes sense, too,” Tina agrees. 

“But,” Riggins begins, then pauses to fix Dirk with a meaningful stare. “I might have an idea.”

Farah’s hand immediately goes to her gun and Riggins catches the movement. “Whoa!” he protests. “Easy! No need for that.”

Farah narrows her eyes and doesn’t move her hand, but she doesn’t take her gun out of the holster either. “What’s this idea?”

Riggins takes a deep breath and looks back at Dirk. Tina glances apprehensively between all three of them. 

“I didn’t mention it before because it’s not, well, reliable, let’s say. But it’s something. Dirk?”

“...Yes?” Dirk blinks slowly at him.

“I’m going to need you to trust me.”

◈ ◈ ◈

Two hours later and Dirk’s sitting in a tiny room with Riggins.

They’d switched motels, just in case, but they hadn’t left town. Riggins had insisted on staying put until they’d narrowed down the search, and Farah had agreed despite the fact that she clearly wanted to argue for its own sake. She and Tina are waiting outside the room--another demand from Riggins. This one hadn’t gone down without a long debate, but eventually Farah had issued a series of threats and allowed Tina to lead her out of the door. Dirk can hear the faint murmur of their voices from beyond the wall and tries to tell himself that they could burst in in time, if it came to that. 

Because he’s not afraid of Riggins, not necessarily, but he is nervous.

Dirk glances around and assesses their new accommodations. He would hesitate to call it a proper motel room--there's a bed, certainly, and a toilet, and a wobbly table with a chair, but that's about it.

"Rather like a prison in here," Dirk says, sitting primly on the bed. He takes some satisfaction in the spasm of guilt that crosses Riggins' face as they both picture Dirk’s sparse room back at Blackwing. 

Riggins clears his throat. "Are you ready?"

"No."

"Dirk--"

"But let's try it anyway."

Riggins raises his eyebrows, but he's got a sympathetic smile that Dirk finds begrudgingly disarming. _He's rather grandfatherly,_ Dirk thinks with some reluctance. _When he's not experimenting on children._

"Okay, Dirk. Just try to concentrate. Don't think about your friend, don't think about fate or the flow of creation.”

"Shall just I close my eyes?" Dirk asks sarcastically. “Maybe raise a finger up to my temple and make a face?”

"If you want." 

When Dirk only grumbles in reply, Riggins bites down a sigh. "Just... just ask yourself, is this _right_?"

"What--that's-- _that's_ your advice? That's it?"

"Dirk--"

" _Scott_ ," Dirk mimics as scathingly as possible.

Riggins' face transforms in surprise, and Dirk only has a moment to consider the fact that pissing off his former captor may not be the wisest idea. Dirk jumps when Riggins lets loose a peal of laughter.

"Okay. Fair enough," the man says with warmth. "You can call me that if you want."

Dirk shifts uncomfortably. "I'll stick with Riggins."

Riggins shrugs good-naturedly. "Fair enough," he says again. “That’s fine. Are you ready to start now?”

“I don’t know.”

"It's alright, just... try to relax."

Dirk shoots him a venomous look.

"Guess that's not really helpful,” Riggins says, a rueful smile in place.

"Not particularly, no.”.

"Can't say I'm much of a coach--"

"You're really, _really_ not--"

"But I'm not the expert. You are."

That throws Dirk. He regards Riggins with suspicion but he holds off on a pithy comeback.

"I know it doesn't feel like it, especially not now, but you're an expert on you, Dirk. No one knows you better, and you're the only one who can do this."

" _This _," Dirk snaps, "this is complete bollocks. I don't know what I'm doing--I don't even know what I am, or how this works, or--"__

__"That doesn't matter."_ _

__Dirk gawks at him in disbelief. "Of course it does! How can I--"_ _

__"The same way you always have."_ _

__"I don't _do_ anything, as you very well know! It just _happens_ to me."_ _

__"Then let it happen."_ _

__Dirk stares, and Riggins stares serenely back. For the first time Dirk wonders if maybe the man knows more than he's let on, because he looks, well, confident. Confident _in Dirk_. It's an expression he's only seen once or twice, and Dirk abruptly has to push down thoughts of Todd._ _

__Dirk closes his eyes._ _

__“Okay, Dirk. Do you want to go north, or do you want to go east?” Riggins asks. “Don’t think too hard about the answer. Just blurt out the first thing that comes to mind. North, or east?”_ _

__“Northeast.”_ _

__There’s a pause. Dirk opens his eyes to find Riggins wearing a skeptical frown. Dirk gives an indignant huff. “I am being entirely serious,” he informs the older man. “That _was_ , in fact, the first thing that came to mind.”_ _

__Riggins looks a little uncertain, but he clears his throat and nods. Dirk reluctantly shuts his eyes again._ _

__“Okay, so we’re going northeast.” Dirk tries to ignore the sound of Riggins unlocking his cell phone and typing away at the screen. “Which of these numbers sounds right--ninety-five, or fifty-four?”_ _

__“What--that’s stupid,” Dirk says, but he doesn’t open his eyes, and after a moment he answers honestly. “But, if you must know, I think I rather prefer the number ninety-five.”_ _

__“Okay,” Riggins repeats, but this time there’s definite warmth in his voice. “Good. That’s really good, Dirk.”_ _

__Dirk ignores the unease that the praise elicits. He doesn’t like that he’s pleased that Riggins is pleased with him._ _

__“A city, or a small town?”_ _

__“Small town.”_ _

__“Lake, or forest?”_ _

__“Forest.”_ _

__“River, or lake?”_ _

__“Er,” Dirk hesitates, thrown by the near-repeat question. He wonders if he’d answered incorrectly, then realizes that Riggins would have no way of knowing that._ _

__Right?_ _

__“A river, or a lake?” Riggins asks again, his voice gentle._ _

__“...River.”_ _

__“You’re doing great, Dirk. Really great.”_ _

__Dirk opens his eyes to stare. Riggins seems sincerely proud, and for a moment Dirk can see what Farah had been trying to tell him in the car. _He cares_ , Dirk realizes. _In his own twisted way, he does care._ _ _

__Dirk lowers his eyes and squeezes his hands together._ _

__“You okay to keep going, Dirk?”_ _

__He nods and presses his eyes shut again, not trusting himself to speak. He’s angry, and he’s relieved, but more than anything he’s confused._ _

__Riggins clears his throat and continues his barrage of bizarre questions. Dirk can hear Farah pacing anxiously outside but she doesn’t interrupt, and after nearly two hours of the world’s blandest game of ‘Would You Rather?’ Riggins is near-confident that they’ve narrowed it down to a single neighborhood._ _

__Dirk’s heart thumps when he’s told to open his eyes. Riggins hands him the cell phone, which has a map of Idaho open on the screen. Dirk studies the satellite image of the town of Dover with wet eyes and the stirrings of hope in his chest as Riggins opens the door and invites Farah and Tina back inside._ _

__He hears Tina asking questions and feels Farah’s hand on his shoulder, but he can’t tear his eyes away from the little pixels._ _

__“Where are we now? What’s the name of the town we’re in?” he asks breathlessly._ _

__Farah sits down next to him on the bed, peering over his arm at the phone. “Post Falls.”_ _

__“It’s about an hour away,” Riggins says quietly. Dirk sucks in a breath and fights down a dizzying wave of relief._ _

__“An hour? Todd could be an hour away,” he mutters, turning to Farah. He can see the doubt in her eyes, but he thinks he sees a cautious hope beneath that, too. “Farah--”_ _

__“We’ll check it out first thing tomorrow,” Riggins says._ _

__“Not tonight?” Tina asks._ _

__“It’s nearly dark--”_ _

__“What does that matter?” Farah challenges hotly, but Riggins hasn’t looked away from Dirk. There’s something like trust in his eyes, something like faith, and that shakes the detective to his core._ _

__“Dirk? What do you think?”_ _

__Every cell of his being is screaming out to leave _now_. But his tongue’s stuck to the roof of his mouth. He feels the pull of fate holding him back, anchoring him to the bed. He doesn’t understand it in the least, but the will of the universe had gotten them this far and he isn’t in a position to ignore it anymore._ _

__“Morning,” he whispers. “We’ll go first thing in the morning.”_ _

__He can see Farah staring at him from the corner of his eye, can see her turn to glance at Tina, but Dirk doesn’t break eye contact with Riggins. There’s an understanding between them now, and Riggins still looks proud of him._ _

__“We’ll find Todd first thing in the morning,” Dirk murmurs._ _

____

◈ ◈ ◈

Rook isn’t much of a drinker.

It had taken him several minutes of long contemplation at the rundown mini mart to make a selection, and as he downs another glass of the moderately-priced whiskey he second guesses that choice. 

“Tastes like shit,” he says to no one. He’s sitting on the dilapidated porch of a house in the sticks with a dying man in his basement. It wasn’t exactly where he’d thought he’d be. But then, nothing was going to plan. All of his work, his preparation, for nothing.

Rook half-fills the glass and absently studies the hard-water stains for a moment before swallowing the liquor down. He’d gone into town to get supplies--food for Todd, water, some blankets for the coming winter, but he’d realized on the drive over that it was pointless. 

Todd wasn’t going to last. 

Rook’s not a doctor, he’s not even properly trained in first aid, but he’s become something of an expert in death. He recognizes that Todd’s fading, even if he’s not entirely sure why. He’s fed Todd, provided water and a bed, even given him access to a functioning shower and toilet. Rook’s checked for illness the best he knows how and he’s found no evidence of sickness or fever, and yet he his health is clearly in decline.

It doesn’t make any sense. 

It isn’t fair.

Rook’s well on the way to drunk--maybe even already there--but he pours some more and drains it in two mouthfuls. 

He considers bringing a doctor in to fix Todd. He could feed from the stranger afterward and kill two birds with one stone: he’d get a meal and prevent the doctor from blabbing about Todd back in town. But it could be tricky. It would only take one slip up, one witness or traffic camera for Blackwing to come crashing down on them. And if Rook isn’t equipped to fix Todd, he sure as shit isn’t equipped to fight off an ambush by the CIA.

He swirls the thin line of liquor in the bottom of the glass and regrets his utter lack of a social network for the first time in a very long time. He has no one to call, no one to consult, no one to even complain to. He only has a near stranger in a basement in the middle of nowhere--and he likely wouldn’t even have that in a few days. 

Rook’s insides shiver. 

He’s hungry.


	9. Reckoner

Farah decides that she will never understand the workings of the universe.

She sits on the lumpy motel bed next to Dirk and stares at the wall behind the television, where Dirk is flipping through channels rapid-fire. She wants to tell him to pick something or turn the damn thing off, but she doesn’t. She’s afraid she’s going to interrogate him if she so much as opens her mouth.

Why did they have to wait for morning to arrive to look for Todd?

Farah’s not sure if she believes that Dirk and Riggins’ thing was real. She doesn’t know if Dirk actually has the ability to use his questionable connection to the fabric of reality to pull answers out of thin air like that, but it’s all they’ve got. They’ve got to try. So why did they have to _wait_? 

She glances over at Dirk and observes that his jaw is clenched. His eyes look watery but he’s not flushed and doesn’t seem especially pale--or, well, not paler than usual, though the TV does wash him out. 

“You okay?” she asks, then shakes her head and clarifies. “Are you feeling alright? No more fever?”

Dirk blinks over at her. “I feel much better, thank you, Farah. A bit tired but, well, nothing worse than that.” He smiles a bit, near shy. “Thank you for taking care of me, by the way. I didn’t say it earlier but--”

“It’s no problem.” Dirk opens his mouth to object and she cuts him off. “Really--Dirk, it’s--I’m glad I was able to help.”

His eyes look even more watery now, and she feels a painful sort of fondness when he reaches over to pat at her hand. He turns back to the television and resumes clicking through the channels. 

Farah lets her eyes stray to the clock and then she goes back to looking at the wall. 

“They’re taking a little while,” Dirk observes suddenly, and she wonders if he caught her checking the time.

“Dinner rush, could be busy,” she says, though she doesn’t quite believe it. Post Falls is a small town, how many people could be out and about at any given time? But the alternative is assuming that Riggins has betrayed them and that Tina has been taken in by Blackwing and that they’re surrounding the motel as she and Dirk sit in the near dark and--

“Yes. Sure. That’s right. Do you--”

They both jump when the door swings open, accompanied by Tina’s full-bellied laugh and Riggins’ lower rumble. Farah, having already cleared the bed and gotten into a defensive stance, tries to assemble her body into a less threatening posture before they notice. She clears her throat when Tina raises her eyebrows and gives her a knowing grin.

“Sorry! You would not _believe_ the line, it’s like every person in this town was there,” Tina chirps, setting two paper bags and one plastic one on the wobbly little table. Farah frowns at the plastic bag.

“What’s that from? Where else did you go?”

“Oh! Just stopped by this little grocery store next door. The restaurant didn’t have any orange soda--”

“You got orange soda?” Dirk asks, climbing off the bed with enthusiasm. 

“Hell yeah I did!” 

“Excellent, Tina,” Dirk says, patting her delicately on the back. “You read my mind.”

Tina laughs at that and makes a comment on predictability, but Farah’s not paying attention anymore. She wants to pull Tina aside and ask why she’d left Riggins alone but she can’t exactly do it with the man in question standing a foot away, dishing out their little meal containers with a vague smile on his face.

Farah draws in a breath, holds it in, and then slowly lets it out. She wills herself to be calm. 

She tells herself that they can trust Riggins, at least to an extent. He’d had ample opportunity to betray them already, a few minutes alone in a restaurant couldn’t have done much damage. She pats her pockets to confirm that she’s still got his cell phone safely tucked away.

Tina and Dirk launch onto the bed with their take-out containers, already chattering away about what to watch, so Farah sits down at the table with Riggins. He offers her the pasta she’d ordered with only a tired smile, and she accepts it with a nod.

“So,” she says lightly. “No problems?”

“No problems,” he confirms smoothly, opening his styrofoam box to reveal an overcooked steak. “At least not aside from the food,” he jokes.

Farah’s mouth twitches in an almost-smile. She takes a delicate bite of her alfredo and is inclined to agree with him. 

“Not the best you’ve ever had, huh?” he asks, reading her less-than-impressed expression.

“Not the best,” Farah agrees. 

Riggins makes a few attempts at small talk but Farah isn’t really in the mood. She can’t get Todd out of her mind. _’Why’_ , she wonders for the hundredth time that evening. _’Why are we waiting?’_

“Are you alright?” 

The question irks her, especially coming from him. Farah faces him and decides to be blunt. “Why are you doing this?”

Riggins puts his plastic cutlery down. “What do you mean?”

“Is this some sort of redemption thing for you?” she asks, with more than a hint of sarcasm. He regards her for a moment, his face unreadable, and then he runs a hand over his head. 

“Something like that. Yes. I guess you could say that.”

Farah lowers her voice and leans in close, keeping her tone sugar-light. “I’ll kill you,” she tells him. “If you betray us, I will _end_ you.”

“I know.” His eyes are calm, and Farah can see that he believes her and that reassures her more than anything else. She leans back in the unsteady motel chair and puts her fork down, suddenly too wound-up to finish her food.

Riggins is watching her now, likely hoping she’ll follow her threat up with something a little more optimistic, but she’s done with him. She’s made her point. She only sighs a little bit when Tina and Dirk settle on watching ‘The Ghost Whisperer’ with the volume up too high.

◈ ◈ ◈

Tina wakes to the sound of retching. She bolts upward off the mattress and falls hard to her knees, tangled in the sheet. The flickering streetlight she’d found super annoying while trying to fall asleep is suddenly very useful--it illuminates the room and it only takes her a moment to figure out where she is and how close she’d come to braining herself on the table.

“Tina?” Farah hisses from the bed, reaching out in the half-dark. “What’s--”

There’s a loud, wet gasp and the sound of something hitting water, and Tina winces. “Shit, who is that?”

“Dirk?” Farah calls out, climbing off the bed. “Dirk, is that you?”

There’s an affirmative grunt from behind the bathroom door and then more pained retching. Tina climbs to her feet and rubs ruefully at her knees, then glances over at the couch where Riggins is stirring.

“Dirk, open the door!” Farah demands. Riggins sits up and clicks on the lamp.

“What’s wrong?”

“Dirk’s sick again,” Tina tells him quietly, worrying her nails with her teeth.

“He’s throwing up? He wasn’t sick with a stomach bug before.” Riggins sounds concerned, but Tina doesn’t know what to say to that. 

“Dirk!” Farah shouts. There’s a groan and a soft _click_ and then the door’s creaking open. Farah’s down on her knees beside him in a flash. “What happened?”

“Throwing up,” Dirk rasps out. 

“I see that,” Farah says. “When did this start?”

“Woke up and threw up.” Dirk shoots them all a miserable look.

“What time is it?” she asks, wincing with sympathy, and Riggins angles the alarm clock on the little table next to the couch. She frowns as she reads 4:02AM.

◈ ◈ ◈

Dirk’s in a lot of pain. His stomach is cramping badly and he can’t even keep a glass of water down.

He half-listens as Farah and Riggins argue about what to do. Tina sits with him in the bathroom and tries to get him to swallow down some ginger ale that Farah had retrieved from the vending machine, but Dirk can’t bring himself to take it. 

“Sheesh,” Tina mutters half an hour later, as Farah and Riggin’s argument escalates. “They’re really going at it.”

“Wha’re they fighting about?” Dirk asks, weak with fatigue. 

“Um. I guess, like, what to do.”

Dirk’s brain abruptly catches up to the situation. “I’m going,” he says loudly, and the room falls silent. He opens his eyes to find Farah and Riggins staring incredulously from table--the sight is really something: Riggins sitting calmly, Farah attempting to intimidate by tower over him. Dirk cringes as the intensity of their combined attention falls on him. 

“Dirk,” Farah begins, but he’s already shaking his head.

“I’m _going_. Farah, this is Todd, I’m not staying behind just because--”

He’s interrupted as his stomach violently convulses. He turns and barely gets into position over the toilet before he coughs up more bile. Tina gently pats his back.

“Look at him,” Dirk hears Riggins mutter. “He won’t even be able to stand up.”

“I--”

“Ms. Black, we don’t know what to expect. We’re likely going to be walking into a fight.”

Dirk weakly raises his head, his arms trembling with the effort of keeping himself upright.

“I know that,” Farah hisses. “But--”

“Best case, he’s going to be a liability. Worst case, he’s going to get himself killed.”

Dirk can only stare helplessly as Farah turns back to him and regards him with a panicked sort of sadness. “Dirk--” she begins, but he’s back to expelling his guts into the basin of the toilet. 

“Stomach bugs don’t last that long,” Riggins says suddenly. “We can just--”

“We can’t wait,” Dirk gasps. “We’ve waited long enough. Todd--we have to--”

“Dirk, he’s made it this long. It’s the only other option. Either you stay behind, or we all wait together.”

A stony silence fills the room. Dirk grunts and rests his head in his hands, fighting down tears of frustration. _’Why?’_ he demands. _’Why this, why now?’_ They were so close. 

So why did it feel like the universe was stalling?

◈ ◈ ◈

Dirk is still in a miserable state when dawn breaks, and Farah hesitates at the prospect of leaving him with Riggins but she needs to get supplies. She doesn’t know what condition Todd is going to be in when they find him, and she reasons that they’ll need food, water, and first aid kits, just in case. A physical map of Idaho would help, too, just in case GPS cut out.

She wants to be prepared for anything, but she quickly finds out that she is, in fact, woefully underprepared when she and Tina step out to find three of her tires had been slashed in the night. Tina grabs her wrist when she reflexively reaches for her gun.

“Easy, dude,” Tina warns, bobbing her head toward the motel’s office. Farah narrows her eyes at the police vehicle that’s parked outside it, and glances around until she finds a harassed-looking officer next to someone else’s car in the lot. 

“Looks like we’re not the only ones who got hit,” Tina observes. 

“Guess not,” Farah says, but her gut is twisting. _’Feels wrong’_ , she thinks. _’This feels really, really wrong.’_

“Probably some shitty teenagers.”

Farah twists her mouth and says nothing, but there’s nothing for it--she can’t exactly call AAA.

“What should we do?” Tina asks, chewing away at her fingers again. Farah resists the urge to slap her hand away from her mouth and studies the other cars in the parking lot. Several are clearly damaged, some even scratched up, likely with keys or a pocket knife. One truck in particular has a penis carved into the driver’s door. Tina has to cover her mouth to keep from laughing when she spots it. 

“Should we, like, take the bus or…?”

“No,” Farah immediately protests. “That’s not a good idea.”

Tina turns to her, the glee at the phallic carving fading fast. “What should we do then, man? We can’t drive on three slashed tires.”

“I know that.” Farah sucks in a breath and turns back to the staircase. She frowns up at their door and tries to swallow down her swelling paranoia. “Guess we only really have one choice.”

“Yeah?”

“We’ll have to borrow Riggins’ car.”

◈ ◈ ◈

“You know, I’m very proud of you.”

Dirk whips his head around to regard Riggins with surprise. “You--what?”

Riggins moves from the couch to sit beside Dirk on the edge of the bed, and the detective prides himself only flinching a little bit. 

“I always knew you had it in you, Dirk. I always knew that you would use your gift to help people.” Riggins’ voice is warm, low--almost melodic. 

Dirk can’t think of a single thing to say. He wonders if this was why Riggins had been so adamant about staying behind while Tina and Farah went shopping.

“I just wanted you to know,” Riggins says, “that you’re doing the right thing.”

“Thank… you?” 

Riggins chuckles. “You know what? Ignore me, I’m just being sentimental.”

Dirk rubs the back of his neck, feeling awkward. “No, really. Thank you. Not for--that, really, but just--thank you. For helping me.”

“Of course. Thank you for letting me help.” Riggins reaches out and puts a heavy hand on his shoulder. Dirk’s heartbeat picks up a bit in anxiety but he doesn’t move away. “We’re going to find your friend, Dirk.”

“I--”

“I promise. We’re going to find him, and we’re going to take care of him.”

Riggins’ hand slips away and Dirk swallows hard. He doesn’t say anything for a long moment, but he abruptly can’t hold back a shuddering sigh. “I don’t know what I’ll do if I lose him.”

“You won’t.”

“I don’t know why I’m telling you this,” Dirk laughs, embarrassed. He clears his throat and tries to will the wetness in his eyes away. The last thing he wants is to cry in front of a Blackwing agent--former or otherwise. 

“Todd is going to be okay, Dirk.”

“He has to be,” Dirk replies in a near-whisper.

“I know.”

The gravity in Riggins’ voice gives Dirk pause. He aims a nervous glance at the man and finds him staring absently at the door. Dirk’s about to ask what Riggins’ means, why he sounds so severe, but a noise from beyond the wall behind them makes him jump.

He turns to stare at the wall and then trades a glance with Riggins, who looks between Dirk and the wall and then shrugs. 

The shuffling noise sounds again.

“What _is_ that?” Dirk asks.

“At a motel?” Riggins laughs lightly. “Well. I’m sure I don’t have to tell you what couples do in motels--”

“Ah,” Dirk interrupts. “Ah, yes, of course.”

They sit quietly for a while, but Dirk can’t help but notice that Riggins seems a little nervous. Increasingly so, as the minutes drag by. Riggins glances at the clock constantly and once it clicks over to 7:00AM he begins checking his phone obsessively. 

Dirk watches him, concerned but suddenly too scared to ask.

A quiet chime sounds out and Riggins scrambles to read the message. His shoulders relax. He turns to Dirk and offers him a pained smile. 

“I forgot,” he says with what sounds to Dirk like forced cheer. “I’ve got some medicine in my bag. Think you can keep it down?”

“What medicine?” 

“Something that might help your stomach.”

Dirk blinks at Riggins but he can’t get a good read on his expression. It’s only when Riggins brings him a pale pink pill and a glass of water that Dirk recognizes it as shame, but that does little to clear up Dirk’s confusion.

“I feel like an ass,” Riggins tells him as Dirk slowly accepts the water and medicine. He stares down at them but doesn’t raise either to his mouth. “My mind’s been--ever since I ran into you, everything’s been so… strange. It feels surreal.”

Dirk lets out a _whoosh_ of air. “I know precisely what you mean,” he admits. 

“I’m sorry, I should have thought of it sooner--”

“It’s alright--”

“It’s basically Pepcid.” Dirk gives him a blank look. “Like, a pill form of Pepto. You know what that is, don’t you? Pepto Bismol?”

Dirk has vague memories of pink sludge. He squints down at the pill and Riggins laughs at his expression. “It doesn’t have a taste, not unless you let it sit in your mouth for too long.”

“Hm.” Dirk considers it. He glances up at Riggins, but Riggins seems unconcerned and somehow that makes Dirk feel better. Riggins isn’t invested in him swallowing the pill. It isn’t a big deal. He just wants to help. “Okay.”

Dirk puts the capsule on his tongue and takes two large mouthfuls of water, making a face even though Riggins had been right--there hadn’t been a taste, he just doesn’t like taking pills. He hands the glass back to Riggins, who smiles and lays a warm hand on his shoulder. 

“You’ll feel better soon, Dirk. I promise.”

◈ ◈ ◈

It doesn’t take long to get everything that they need. Farah had divided the labor of searching for the items on their shopping list and Tina had been surprisingly good at finding her half--she’d even beaten Farah to the self-check-out area.

“God bless Walmart,” Tina jokes, watching Farah scan and bag items with her usual efficiency. “Jeez, man, were you like a grocery bagger as a teenager?”

Farah pauses for a moment, then stuffs the second of four first-aid kits into a plastic bag. “No.”

“Well. If the detective agency thing doesn’t work out, there’s always Safeway.”

That earns a snort of laughter and Tina looks pleased that the quip landed well. 

They make it out of the store and stuff the bags into Riggins’ trunk. Farah takes a moment to study space. There’s nothing suspicious about his vehicle, nothing to trigger the scrutiny, but she can’t ignore the urgent sense of unease that rests somewhere in her chest.

She notices that they’re dangerously low on gas almost back to the motel and can’t stop her hands from clenching on the steering wheel in frustration. Just one more thing. One more little obstacle between her and Todd. She all but screeches into the nearest Chevron and slams the door just a bit too hard. 

They’re only a few blocks away from the motel. 

Farah jams the gas nozzle in and squeezes down hard on the handle. 

They can head out as soon as they collect Riggins and Dirk and their bags. 

She repeats this to herself three times before she calms down enough to take stock of her surroundings. Her eyes land on a man with close-cropped hair and sunglasses loitering near the doors of the convenience store. He’s already staring dead at her.

The stranger averts his gaze when she stares back, scrutinizing his clothing and the way he’s holding himself. 

Farah decides he looks distinctly miliary and her dread magnifies tenfold. 

She stops filling the car. She calmly puts the nozzle back and climbs into the driver’s seat as though nothing is amiss. Tina glances up from some game on her phone and frowns at the expression on her face.

“What’s up, Farah? You look like--”

“We should go,” Farah interrupts, and Tina offers no protest. They drive the short distance back toward the motel in silence. Farah scans for following cars and Tina chews at her fingernails. Farah’s about to pull into the parking lot of the motel when she spots two black SUVs parked across the street and a gleaming white sedan with government plates in the lot. 

She swerves and keeps on driving, swearing.

“Tina--call Dirk, call him _right now_.”

Tina scrambles with her phone and dials, but Dirk doesn’t pick up. She stares, wide-eyed and pale, as Farah grits her teeth and goes into survival mode.

◈ ◈ ◈

Rook had slept fitfully. He’d gone straight for the couch, afraid he’d kill his captive if he dared to indulge in so much as a glance inside of the basement. The hunger is ever-present now, but it’s not all-consuming. He’d thought he could wait. But he’d woken up hours later to weak, buttery light in his face and a hangover, and he’d gone straight back to the bottle. Hair of the dog. Or whatever.

He’d polished off the whiskey and gone straight downstairs. He stares down at Todd Brotzman and wonders if maybe he’d overindulged because either Todd had multiplied in the night or Rook was having double-vision. 

He should go back upstairs.

Instead, he sits heavily on the edge of the mattress and grips the edge of it to steady himself. Todd twitches and tries to move away on instinct, and Rook suddenly finds that he’s got Todd’s forearm in an iron grip. He stares down at his hand and squeezes, watching with interest as the other man’s already pale arm goes white with the pressure. 

He should go back upstairs. 

“Wake up,” he says. 

He tugs hard at Todd’s arm, half-pulling him over, and Todd’s eyes open sluggishly. Rook lets go of Todd’s arm and notes with some distress that it flops limply back to the mattress. 

“What’s the matter with you?” Rook asks. He doesn’t really expect an answer but Todd’s silence is aggravating all the same. Rook looks down into his huge eyes and resists the urge to hurt him just to get a reaction.

“You’ve been,” he starts, slurring slightly and struggling to find the words. “You’ve been sleeping too much. Get up.” 

Todd stares up at him, but his eyes aren’t tracking properly and there’s no sign of comprehension. It makes Rook nervous, and that makes him angry. 

“Todd. Get up.” 

Todd does not get up. He doesn’t so much as blink. Rook sucks in a breath and scrubs his hands over his face, trying to rein in his frustration, and when he lowers them a quick flicker of movement catches his attention. He watches as an arachnid climbs up the wall over the mattress. 

_An orb weaver_ , he thinks distantly. 

“Where did you come from?” he asks it, mostly because he doesn’t know that much about spiders and he’s pretty sure orb weavers don’t live in basements. But then again, the extent of his knowledge is from a few nature books as a child and in pulling them apart as a teenager. They were more interesting than insects--there was almost an intelligence in the way they would try to avoid him, as futile as that was. Rook’s persistent. He can’t think of a time he’d let one get away once he’d decided to kill it.

The one on the wall drags itself another inch up and then stops. Rook wonders if it’s out of breath. He wonders if that can even happen to a spider. He raises his hand without thinking much about it, but he’s drunk enough that he misses when he makes a sloppy slap. The spider scrambles away, up and out of reach, and Rook sways a bit when he stands to pursue it. 

He raises his hand again. A soft shuffle sounds somewhere behind him and he turns, confused, to find Todd stumbling halfway across the room.

Two things occur to him in that moment: he’d left the door open behind him, and Todd had been playing dead, biding his time until Rook had dropped his guard. 

It only takes three quick strides to catch up, though; Todd may have been exaggerating his incoherency but he’s still weak. Rook grabs the smaller man just as he curls a hand around the doorframe and they struggle--Todd’s got animal desperation on his side, but Rook’s got a stomach full of whiskey and about seventy-pounds on him. He pulls Todd back by the hair and reaches for the door with his free hand. When Todd refuses to relinquish his hold on the frame Rook simply slams the door shut on his fingers.

There’s a satisfying _crack_ and Todd shrieks, and then Rook has no trouble drawing him back into the room. He lets go and Todd falls to his knees, cradling his hand, and Rook remembers to close and lock the door this time. He turns back to Todd and ignores his aching head. He grabs Todd by the shirt and drags him back across the room, dropping him back beside the mattress. Not on it, though. No. Todd would get the concrete floor. Maybe Rook should even take the mattress out of the basement entirely.

Todd offers a token struggle when Rook takes hold of him again.

"Hey, hey," he slurs, keeping his hands fisted in the fabric of Todd’s shirt. "Where did you think you were going?"

It makes him angry, seeing that expression on Todd’s face, that delicate blend of fear and resignation.

"Why’re you looking at me like that?" He asks, too loud, too close to Todd’s face. He feels Todd squirm in his grip. He feels the anger worming down into his belly. "Didn’t I tell you not to be afraid of me, Todd? I told you that I’d take care of you.”

"Stop--"

Rook grabs Todd where the soft flesh of his neck meets his jaw. Todd gives a soft moan and Rook presses down harder.

"Didn’t I tell you?" he asks softly, but digs his thumb into the side of Todd’s windpipe to discourage him from answering--he's sick of words, he'll just take the noise, the guttural choke. 

Rook’s caught up in his head and doesn't expect a jab at his face. He releases the Todd’s throat to grab at his wrists, easily blocking an aborted attempt at a punch. 

Todd tries to wriggle away.

Rook twists his arm behind his back and pushes him against the floor, and he barely notices the soft rush of air that Todd huffs out as he's crushed against the filthy concrete. Rook can't hear much above the ragged rasp of his own breathing, and it takes every ounce of patience that he has left not to break Todd’s arm. 

It would be easy.

He resists the temptation but jars Todd’s wrist up anyway, and he wonders what it means when he can't even find satisfaction in the pained noise the movement elicits.

"Why can't you just stop?" he hears himself ask, but they're not the right words--it's not what he wants to ask. “Why won’t you listen? Why won’t you just stay still?”

"Please," Todd says, but his voice sounds flat and far away and it does nothing to appease the roar in Rook’s ears. He can feel the way the muscles in Todd’s arm twitch and jump, straining against the hold.

“I think maybe the universe is broken,” Rook confesses. “This is meant to be, but it isn’t, is it? Everything led to this. But it’s all wrong.”

He suddenly feels tired.

He can't deny the longing to curl up and sleep until the aching in his head goes away, but Todd won't stop wiggling. He struggles all the harder when Rook sags against him in exhaustion, and Rook can't find the patience to reason with him anymore.

"Stop, just stop," Rook warns, and doesn't recognize the irony of begging. 

Todd’s free arm swings back. He doesn't manage to catch Rook with his elbow but it doesn't matter that the hit didn’t connect. Rook’s thoughts hollow out at the mere attempt. 

He won’t remember how it happens later but he gets Todd flat on his back. His knees are digging into the cold concrete floor, and his chest is stinging from his wild breathing, and his hands find a good hold around Todd’s throat.

"Just stop," Rook moans, squeezing gently down like it's a reassurance, a promise of mercy. But he feels Todd’s fingers scramble at his wrists and he feels blunt nails dig in and then he pulls Todd’s head up and then he slams it down.

There's a sick _thump_ and Todd’s grip goes weak, and then his hands fall away from Rook’s wrists. Rook distantly marvels that Todd had managed to cling on so hard with his left hand mangled. He’s pretty sure a few fingers had been broken by the door. 

He watches, fascinated, disgusted, as Todd’s eyes glaze over.

Rook’s hands are shaking with the effort of his grip. It's not necessary to keep squeezing but he can't bring himself to let go.

◈ ◈ ◈

Todd doesn’t feel surprise.

He had known the basement would be his tomb from the first moment he’d first laid eyes on it. He’d known the end would be in violence--it’s just that the pain of it is more than he’d expected. 

The abstracted smear of Rook’s face hovers above him, and Todd tries to call it into focus, as if seeing the other man's expression might ease the terrifying agony of it all. Todd opens his mouth, but no sound escapes. He tries to arch his back and twist away but he’s too weak to even lift his hands or kick out. The back of his head is hot and wet and he can’t think straight. 

_Please,_ he tries to croak out, but he can't hear his own voice over thump of his heartbeat in his ears. He's even not sure the word even gets past the steady hold of Rook’s hands. 

Rook must lean down, because the brutal weight on his neck becomes unbearable and the indistinct blur of his tormentor’s face sharpens a bit with proximity. 

_No_ , he tries to gurgle out. 

It feels like something gives in his throat and his vision warps black.

He makes a wet noise and writhes.


End file.
